between snow and ice
by evil minded
Summary: AU/ As the sequel to 'between roses and peppermint', this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time it is about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … read between roses and peppermint first … have fun reading …
1. the troubles of winter

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time it is about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading … to understand how things started in this story, you need to read _'between roses and peppermint'._

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn dorch Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me – I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smudge, bring brown rings caused by your coffee cup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter one – the troubles of winter**

 **Or – of God and cars**

 **December 19** **th** **1939, Tuesday – Whitechapel Mount, Indiana, Hathaway Academy**

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

Going through his supply cupboard, he grimaced at the little fact that he was running short of not only paper and ink, but of quills, chalk and sponges too – not to mention several new test tubes he needed and one or another ingredient. The chalk, ink and the sponges, he could order from Indianapolis, no problem there, but anything else he would have to restock himself, and that meant a trip to either New Heaven's Valley or Whitechapel Mount City – and while he generally would prefer Whitechapel Mount City, seeing that unknown people in the larger city would less know and therefore less annoy him with stupid, idiotic and most annoying questions, babbling and other things, he'd go to New Heaven's Valley anyway as not only the stationery, but the drug store in the small town, too, had the better quality in things he needed.

The only question was – _when_ he would go.

He could, of course, wait until Christmas holidays for his trip – and therefore until the small town would be swarming with snotty children, filling the grocery, filling the stationery, and filling any other shop he might venture in as they would surely refuse staying at home during a fine holiday afternoon, but wouldn't be playing outside in the cold and wet weather either – except of having a snowball fight, something that was just as annoying as were idiot children roaming the stores, just by the way. But generally, they'd meet in the shops, and that was something he wasn't really looking forward to.

In other words – he'd better go before the holidays started and while the little snots were still visiting school.

Hathaway's students had left school just this very morning, leaving for their homes, seeing that it was a boarding school they visited. While a regular school would be running until Christmas eve, a boarding school generally would dismiss the students into holidays a week early so that the children would have some time they could spend with their parents – never mind if _they_ liked spending time with their children or not – and so the students had left Hathaway this very morning and only one of his own students had remained for Christmas Holidays, namely Johnny Constantin, a seventh grade student that was old enough to look after himself so that he could leave him alone for a few hours. Not to mention that the boy would meet with Charles Irving anyway, a seventh grade student from VanHarkins, and so he wouldn't have to worry overly.

Well – looking out of the window it was clear that he best went to town today, before the snowstorm would arrive, because he didn't really like the clouds that were gathering, and if he outwaited the storm, then maybe the holidays had already started. After all, they'd start in just two days.

So, turning away from the cupboard – and the window – he left his office, hurrying along the corridor, and he made a few mental notes for his visit in New Heaven's Valley, including the note that – should he meet Violet, he best reminded her at the chemists' congress in Indianapolis next month.

So, without hesitation he took his coat from the hook beside the door that led from his office to his classroom, put on the scarf and then he slipped into the garment, closing button for button while he stepped along the corridor that led to the stairwell and then to the main entrance hall of the school. He strode through the hall, left the building, and for a moment he held his breath at the cold before adjusting and lowering his head against the wind.

It was one of his favorite seasons, winter, because everyone hated it and so he'd long ago decided that he'd like it – not to mention the little fact that he actually didn't like summer.

The summer months were hot and stifling, and while most people preferred clothes with as little fabric as possible, he would never wear shorts or a sleeveless shirt, nor would he, by free will, do without his jacket – or his teaching robes, hot summer months or not. So, of course he preferred the cold of winter where he could wear clothes the way he liked without being viewed as buttoned up.

Not that he would mind other people's opinions, surely not, but that didn't change the little fact that he liked winter more than summer.

Crossing the parking lot and approaching the 1922 Lancia he huffed at the view of the old car that looked shabby beside the headmaster's new Studebaker President. Several dents and dints decorated the carriage, together with several scratches and maybe he should wash the car – maybe. He liked it the way it was, and he saw no sense in wasting time with washing his car that just had to bring him from one place to the other.

For a moment he took a deep breath, remembering the day he'd got it, seventeen years ago.

It's been a nice Saturday afternoon in spring, and it's been nice because it's been raining. He'd visited old Mrs. McAlister, just like each and every Saturday afternoon, enjoying a cup of tea and a nice chat together with the 72 year old lady, and providing her with what medication she needed – and yes, he actually had enjoyed both, the tea and the chat, seeing that Mrs. McAlister had been a very well educated woman with a great sense of humor. Her only weak point had been that she'd hated visiting the doc, or having the doc over, and so he'd taken over that part.

However, her son – who'd never visited her, by the way – had bought her the Lancia, seemingly doing something good to her, not realizing that the old woman had been nearly blind. He'd either not known, or he had just ignored it, and both had spoken volumes in his opinion, because had he cared more about his mother, then he'd known and he would have thought about his actions – but no, he hadn't cared about her, just like he'd never visited her, and so he had presented her with something that was just useless to her, trying to ease his bad conscience and nothing else.

"If only they'd ask before presenting me with things I have no use for." She'd said. "But no. They buy those things _they_ like just to ease their bad conscience for not visiting, without using their brain. I have a telephone, you know? It would be just one call and just one question. 'What do you need, mom?' But no. They don't call because they know that they could get a piece of my mind for not visiting."

However, she'd asked him to take the car and to keep it. Of course he could have – like everyone expected of a man well raised – declined the offer.

"Certainly I can't do such a thing, Mrs. McAlister – no, really not … it is out of question … no … no … that's too big of a present, Mrs. McAlister and I can't … of course … if you insist, Mrs. McAlister …"

But he hadn't, because he had seen no sense in such gravelling behavior. She'd wanted him to have the car? Well, he'd thanked her, and he'd promised her to keep it in good condition. She'd made it official and still he'd visited Mrs. McAlister each and every Saturday afternoon afterwards – until she'd died – and she had never asked him to give it back.

Scowling at himself he started the engine and then maneuvered the car through the snow.

For a moment he scowled at the idiots who should be clearing the snow off the roads. Of course they'd not do their work properly and the way they should. But well, he was well capable driving in snow, like anyone else here, and so he didn't really mind. He'd maneuver the car through the snow to New Heaven's Valley, and then he'd maneuver it back home after he'd done his shopping, and for the remainder of the winter he wouldn't need to leave Hathaway again.

He'd ignore his colleagues celebrating Christmas – just like he'd ignore any other meal, invitation, gathering, sitting-together, or similar socializing events, and only for New Year's eve he'd go to the staff-room, shortly before midnight, to have two fingers of Ogden's finest together with Hendrik. That was all what he'd allow himself of socializing events. Maybe Hendrik would visit him during the holidays with a bottle of the golden liquid – or with two mugs of mead – and they'd have an evening together, but other than that, he'd have his rest and he'd have his peace for some time, until school started again.

He was looking forwards to the next few days.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 19** **th** **1939, Tuesday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Dunstan**

It was strange, really!

And he was frustrated!

Never before had he done something like _that_ – and he knew that he was late in doing what he was doing right now anyway – anyone else had already finished their preparations weeks ago, on the first Sunday in Advent while _he_ was still busy with hanging angels and balls in different colors at the tree Jean had brought last Sunday.

Not that cutting a tree for Christmas would be something the boy had done at a regular basis in the past, surely not, it had been a first time for _him_ , too – but that didn't change the little fact that he was busy with something that was just annoying, irritating and frustrating to no end.

If there were black balls for the tree – that would be alright with him.

And if there were black angels for the tree – that would be alright with him, too.

If the snow outside would be … _black_ … that would be even better than the black balls and angels.

He'd deal with the coldness of winter, really, no trouble there – but who in God's name, had come up with white snow? And then all that red and gold trash people used for decorations! And that fluffy, fleecy, soft, candy and sweet thingy that was … Christmas itself!

It was just horrible.

It was horrible – and it was only four days away.

During summer he'd said – well, it's half a year until December. During fall he'd said that – it's still three months until Christmas, and even last month he'd said – it's still four weeks, there's some time left until then. And now, it was four days until Christmas and he wondered where time had gone – and more imortantly, why no one had forewarned him, why no one had informed him of the quickly approaching holidays that had caught him by surprise. he was completely unprepared!

If everything were cold and hard and black, then he'd like it much better, and he'd be able dealing with that most horrifying of all holidays much better, really – but white snow? And colorful balls? Golden angels?

And really, if his brother – not his twin but his older brother – were alive still, then he'd surely agree with him, too.

Frowning he stopped in his actions of decorating a Christmas tree, thinking, because it was a rare occasion that he was thinking of his older brother.

He still didn't know how – and especially when – he'd died.

He was often thinking of Kenrich, of his twin, and he knew exactly what had happened, when Kenrich had died – but it were rare occasions that he was remembering …

Kenrich had been killed on October 6th 1914, exactly two years after he'd left home and he knew it, because he'd felt it when his twin had died. He'd then gathered any information he could get his hands on, but he'd been unable going home for the funeral.

Too much time had passed since he'd left home, and too much had happened before he'd left home, too much had happened while he'd been away, too, and in the end he'd been unable going back home. Maybe because he'd feared he'd kill his father the moment he saw him, maybe he'd feared he'd tell his mother a piece of his mind, maybe … he didn't know what it had been that had kept him from going home, but the fact remained that he'd just been unable to.

He'd been travelling to Tonopah, and he'd gone to the graveyard, wearing a trench coat and a hat, and sunglasses, too, and he'd been hiding behind a tree, watching the funeral from afar, barely able to hear the pastor's words – but that hadn't been necessary anyway. He'd watched his mother, barely sober enough to stand without swaying and he knew that it wasn't the hurt that had made her grabbing his father's arm, but alcohol because he'd seen the anger in his father's eyes and the clear disdain in his brother's eyes.

Many people had come to the ceremony, and he'd watched his father speaking with them, playing the role of a loving father who'd lost his son – after he'd told the driver to bring his mother home, most likely knowing that she'd continue drinking once she arrived there, because that was what she'd always done … he'd hated his father for it, for his playing act, and for his willful ignorance – and for not caring about Lew, his only son left.

He'd watched Lew during the ceremony, of course he had, he'd been standing beside his father, after all and so it was impossible to not watching him, too. Lew had been standing there, still and rigid, stiff, just the way he remembered him, and he'd watched him leaving the ceremony the moment it was over. He'd left the graveyard without turning once, without looking back and without speaking to anyone – and somehow he'd known that Lew had left his home, too, on that very day.

Well, and he, Dunstan, he'd been home again when his father had died a few months ago – the last of his family.

Of course he hadn't known about his oldest brother being dead, too, when he'd arrived in Tonopah. He'd rather thought he'd meet him there, taking over his heritage consisting in several banks, companies and hotels worth several million dollars, but he'd been wrong and there had been nothing that could have given information about his brother's death – he'd been just … gone, as if he'd never existed, as if he'd been a ghost in his mind, only. No place of death, no date of death, no obituary, no grave, no nothing.

There hadn't been anyone there when he'd come – _'home'_ – except of the family lawyer who'd told him this and that, but was unable answering all of his questions … and still he didn't know what to do with all the money that would be rightfully his in less than five months.

And a few months ago he'd just been … a normal guy.

He'd been working as an analytical chemist for the police in Virginia until his best friend had died – and …

Shaking his head – and grimacing at the shiny red ball he held in his hands – he continued with this most stupid activity that was called decorating a Christmas tree.

He didn't want all of that, the money, the banks, the firms, and anything else that had to do with his father's imperium. He'd been living a life that had been simple, that had been fun, and that had been – easy, at least to some degrees.

Except of being an analytical chemist for the police department, he'd lived at Hopedale, one of the largest ranches in Virginia where Joshua and the twins lived together with their father and he'd helped as much as Mr. Vaughn's sons had helped. It's been a lot of work and it's been hard work, but it's been a good life anyway.

He'd been happy there, and he'd been free – the world had been alright … until Joshua had died.

Shaking off that thought he concentrated back on decorating that damn tree. Jean would be back home on Friday evening, and there was a lot to do until then – the tree had to be finished, the crib had to be built and of course he had to bake some cookies – and maybe a cake.

He wouldn't do that, were he living alone, but he wasn't living alone and so – for the boy's sake, he'd bite the bullet and prepare for Christmas.

Taking a look out of the window he frowned at the dark and heavy clouds that gathered in the sky, and he knew that soon, tonight or tomorrow evening at the latest, there would be a snowstorm racing over the area, and he frowned, because even though New Heaven's Valley was protected by several mountains, and even though winter down here was rather mild, bringing barely enough snow to last for longer than a few weeks, it had been snowing for days now and the small dale was already snowed in.

Just an hour ago Cole had closed off the streets uphill – any streets uphill – leaving the small town snowbound, isolated and cut off from the outside world, and only the chief with his firetruck was allowed to drive uphill, the sheriff with his winter truck – and of course Jean would be allowed, but Jean wasn't here, Jean was driving a heavy truck over the ice roads in north Canada, like each winter since 1932. He's been one of the first ice truckers worldwide, and he had to admit that the boy was doing a rather good job – according to the other truckers which were rather fond of the boy.

However, just a few hours, and then another snowstorm would hit the small valley, and he hoped that it wouldn't go north, or at least only then when Jean was on his way back home and had safely arrived the store where he could outwait the storm in the safety of the barracks.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 19** **th** **, 1939, Tuesday –** **New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Gwyneth McFlaherty**

She didn't even turn the ignition key in the lock, because she knew that surely the car wouldn't start just like that – and that didn't have anything to do with her faith in God or lack thereof, surely not, but with her knowledge that the ignition simply was … defect.

They'd been to Norman at the beginning of September due to the horn being defect, and he'd made it clear that the entire car was a wrack that would see the junk yard rather sooner than later, and so they had already been looking for a new car.

They'd found two, actually, an old 1919 Ford Model T and a 1938 Chrysler Imperial.

Anyone would now say that surely it was a stupid thing to buy an old Ford if you needed a new car, if you had been driving a junk car for several years now, but this particular Ford, it was one of the most beautiful cars she'd ever seen – if one could say that a car was beautiful – and even though she wouldn't generally care about her car, as long as it brought her from one point to the other, she'd actually fallen in love with this one.

Not to mention that the Chrysler was much more expensive, even though she had to admit that it was a really good car that would serve them for many years and that Horace McAlister would give them the money to good conditions. She also had to take into consideration that the car resided in Whitechapel Mount City while the Ford was from Dayton – _and_ not to mention that the Ford was not quite running at the moment.

 _Plus_ – she had no trailer to get the Ford to New Heaven's Valley.

In other words, the logical decision would have been to buy the Chrysler, and for several days, for two weeks, actually, she'd been asking God about it – without getting an answer.

"Really, why won't you just tell me which car we should take?" She'd asked one day, out of pure desperation. "Thinking logically, we should take the Chrysler, of course, I know that, but the Ford is a great car, and it's a Woody, no less, Lord. A Woody, imagine! I'd really like this one, but what do you say?"

Anyway, she'd still not gotten an answer.

But the very next day she'd met with Rebecca Mc Guaire, and Rebecca had told her how she'd feared that her son wouldn't get a job, how she'd feared that the boy would end up on the streets – and she knew how much the woman had worried, because they had often been praying for the matter. And then the boy had been offered _two_ jobs even , could choose which one he'd like, and suddenly she'd known that God wouldn't tell her which car she had to take, that she could choose which car she wanted and, thanking God for it, she'd made her decision.

Of course Morgan hadn't been too happy about it, but he'd nodded his head, telling her that one way or another they'd get the old Ford from Dayton to New Heaven's Valley, and one way or another they'd get the old Ford to working. Well, and if Morgan said they'd manage, then they would, one way or another, because Morgan, too, just like herself, surely had had a small discussion with God over it.

Putting in the second gear and having the car rolling down the street, she released the clutch, thanking God that the engine actually started as that, too, wasn't always working lately. For two or three weeks now the car sometimes just didn't work, even though she was always parking in a side street near their house where she could have the car rolling down to start it, and then Morgan and one of their neighbours – in most cases it was Leonard Henson – had to push it back uphill.

Not to mention that for months now they had to re-fill water into the radiator or the engine would run hot – that's actually been a problem before the ignition had died down, but seeing that the vehicle wouldn't survive the year anyway, Morgan had decided that he wouldn't spend any more money for it.

Well, and for at least three weeks now, the car was missing its turn signal, too … and still the old Ford wasn't ridable.

Carefully driving up the snow-covered and winding road that would lead to Whitechapel Mount City, she took a deep breath, remembering how the old Ford had made its way to New Heaven's Valley.

They had called the family in Dayton, and alone _that_ had been a small adventure, because it's been a family with nine children – and each of them wanted to ask or say something, being fascinated by the telephone itself and by the selling of their old car, and the buying of their new car, too.

She had learned that there had been a small girl with the name of Deborah who was sad because the car had grown to her while her older brother, who'd called Deborah a crybaby, had been happy about the new Ford the family would soon be driving – even though it would be a somewhat old Ford anyway as the father, Mr. Blacksmith, couldn't afford a really new car.

And then there had been David who'd told both of his siblings off for making such a ruckus while their parents were trying to have a phone call over that large distance, and so she guessed that it was one of the older children, taking care of their younger siblings, a responsible thing to do, really.

Reaching the borders of the city she slowed down and then turned left into the road with the first large stores where you could buy anything in one house, the store offering so many things, it always made her head swarming if she ventured into one, the shops being scattered all over several floors. She didn't like those big stores and so she passed those houses without regarding them, and turned left with the next side road.

Well, the thing with this old Ford, it's been a small miracle.

Just the day before, Mr. Blacksmith had gotten an offer from an old car enthusiast, an offer that was high above what Morgan could pay for the old Ford, but after some time the family in Dayton had decided to give the old car over to _them_ instead of making a lot of money.

"If God is involved, then who are we to say something else." Mr. Blacksmith had finally said and she'd been able to hear Mrs. Blacksmith taking a deep breath of relief at the other end of the circuit. Not really, of course, but in her mind. "I know someone with a trailer, I'll ask him for help." Mr. Blacksmith had then added, and she'd nearly not believed her ears. She'd thanked God that night for his courtesy and for his love.

She passed Hathaway, that school for difficult boys and turning right she passed the hospital, smiling when seeing Wohehiv's red Cherokee pickup, knowing that it meant that the Indian was at work today.

Well, that's been that and just a few days later Mr. Blacksmith had called them back, telling them that his friend, Mr. Whitmore, would of course help them getting the car to New Heaven's Valley, and now the old Ford was residing in Norman's garage for several days – and still it wasn't running.

Reaching the house where Elisabeth was living with her family, she slowed down, turned the car so that she could park downhill, and then she turned off the engine.

"You're still driving that old heap?" The young woman asked by greeting, approaching her even before she'd got off the car. "It seems a small miracle that it's still running."

"This car is held together by bits of wire and good intentions." She laughed, taking her purse and leaving the old car, patting the fender of the Elmore. It's been one of the least expensive vehicles on the market, back then in 1908, and she remembered how Morgan had bought it for 650 Dollars in the year 1912. Both, her husband and she, too, had gotten some money from their parents when they'd married or they wouldn't have been able to buy that car – that's been 27 years ago, in the year 1912, and it's been a good year.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 19** **th** **1939, Tuesday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Walter Sherman**

"Any plans for today?" Jethro asked the moment they both were sitting down for lunch, sausages and scrambled eggs, and he nodded his head.

"Conner, Patrick and I will meet at Mrs. Mason's." He said, taking the fork and starting with the scrambled eggs. "Conner wanted to buy a paper blank for his bible studies, and Patrick and I said we'd come, too. After that we'll go to Pop's Soda Shoppe for ice cream."

"It's twenty points below zero and you're going to eat ice cream." Jethro huffed, but he knew that the man didn't mean it.

Jethro was a grumpy guy – at least if you considered all those nice people here in this small town – but he was alright. He'd taken him in, and he'd officially made him his foster son. He had a nice room for himself, with a bed and soft bedding, a cupboard, a desk and an armchair. He got three meals a day, five dollars a week and if he needed anything, he just had to tell his foster father and he'd get it – mostly at least. He guessed that there would be some things Jethro would shake his head, telling him that if he wanted that rubbish, then he'd have to save his money and buy it himself.

However, the most important thing to him was – he had someone who listened to him, who sat down for meals together with him, and whom he could talk to.

After he'd come to live with Jethro, in summer, the man had taken him to the nearby lake for camping and fishing, or they'd been climbing Little Bear's Peak. The man had made it unmistakably clear that should he find him climbing Mount Eagle or any of those mountains that were closed off, or should he find him climbing without his knowledge, secretly, or in winter, then he would be in trouble, and knowing that man, he better didn't get into trouble with him.

But he'd never before been to the lake with someone, or camping, or fishing, or climbing – he didn't mind the restrictions Jethro set him, really.

Sometimes they were just sitting together on the veranda, watching the sunset, watching birds, talking about this and that, and sometimes Jethro even took him to their meetings when they had a fire service drill.

"It's never too cold for ice cream." He said, shrugging his shoulders. "And we've all managed the math test today without mistakes and Patrick's getting ten cent for a good test." He then added, looking at Jethro, thoughtfully. "You know, they're really poor, Patrick's family, but anyway he's getting ten cent for a good test. That's great. I like his family."

"Yes." His foster father nodded at him. "The Joneses are very honorable people. Money is not important if it comes to decency and uprightness, and never mind them being poor, they're taking very good care of their children and the future of their children, making sure that they have a good education and making sure that they'll get a good job."

"What job would you want me to get?" He asked, carefully, watching the man curiously.

Of course he knew that his father had disowned him, but not only did he not care, he actually felt alright with it. He felt – free. He felt free here, in this small town – and he felt free here with his foster father. Lawyer Cor had said that it wouldn't be so easy, and that despite the disinheritance, there would be a legitimate portion his biological father couldn't deny him, but still, he didn't want that, didn't feel well with that.

"What job would you like to learn?" Jethro asked back.

"I'd like to become a lawyer, for the poor people." He said, knowing that most likely he couldn't become that, at least not so soon, because for that he would have to study, and Jethro would surely not pay for him visiting university.

"Well, if that's what you like, and if you're serious about it, then be it." Jethro said, and for a moment he couldn't help blinking at the man stupidly.

"Listen, boy." Jethro then said, apparently knowing his thoughts. "It is your life, and it is your future, and so it is of course your choice what you'd do with it. I've taken you in, and that's nothing that stops after meals, a bed and a few clothes, but that includes education and a visit at the university, too. I've taken over responsibility for you and that includes your education and your future life, too."

"Uhhh … 'k …" He said, feeling somewhat strange, his head – or his mind, he wasn't so sure about that – swimming for a moment, and he was sure that there was something in his throat that didn't belong there. His father wouldn't have allowed him to choose his profession, and he'd stopped paying for his education the moment he'd learned of his wishes.

He ate a few bites more before laying the fork at his plate and getting off the chair, murmuring something about being late for meeting with Conner and Patrick, and then …

"Walter." Jethro called him back just before he was out of the kitchen, and he turned, looking back at the man and in his mind there was something like – damn! I was too late! Now it comes … "My wallet's on the board in the parlor, take a dollar and pay the ice cream for Conner, Patrick and for you."

"Uhhh … 'k … thanks …" He stammered, big eyed, and then he hurried out, taking a deep breath the moment he was out of the house and on the street. He couldn't really deal with these things. He'd never had someone who'd told him to take money from his wallet, and he'd never had someone who'd given him money to pay ice cream for his friends either. He'd never had someone who'd told him to do what he wanted instead of to do what his father wanted, and he'd never had someone who'd taken his well-being and their responsibility seriously.

He'd forgotten his jacket when he'd left the house, but he didn't really care. It was cold, but he didn't care about that either. There was just a bit of snow falling at the moment, the flakes dancing slowly and softly towards the white ground, and the coldness he'd survive. Mrs. Mason's wasn't far away from Jethro's house, after all, and Pop's Soda Shoppe wasn't far away either. He wouldn't be in the cold for more than a few minutes.

He'd deal with the situation when he got home in the evening, or maybe Jethro had forgotten about it until then – or the man would just ignore it, knowing that he didn't like talking about it.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between snow and ice …**

 _The second chapter: a storm is approaching …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	2. a visit by accident

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading …

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Added author's notes:**

This first chapter, the foreword, might give away the impression that the story might be a biography – _it is not_. I have only written it so that you might know, not all of what happens in a book is fiction. There are things which are very much reality for some people and even though the story in the book might be playing at a different place and to a different time, for different persons – sometimes part of it might be real for some people anyway, never mind if it is the story of one particular person, if it is the story of a nation, or if it is the story of how God can work miracles in people.

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smudge, bring brown rings caused by your coffee cup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _"Listen, boy." Jethro then said, apparently knowing his thoughts. "It is your life, and it is your future, and so it is of course your choice what you'd do with it. I've taken you in, and that's nothing that stops after meals, a bed and a few clothes, but that includes education and a visit at the university, too. I've taken over responsibility for you and that includes your education and your future life, too."_

 _"Uhhh … 'k …" He said, feeling somewhat strange, his head – or his mind, he wasn't so sure about that – swimming for a moment, and he was sure that there was something in his throat that didn't belong there. His father wouldn't have allowed him to choose his profession, and he'd stopped paying for his education the moment he'd learned of his wishes._

 _He ate a few bites more before laying the fork at his plate and getting off the chair, murmuring something about being late for meeting with Conner and Patrick, and then …_

 _"Walter." Jethro called him back just before he was out of the kitchen, and he turned, looking back at the man and in his mind there was something like – damn! I was too late! Now it comes … "My wallet's on the board in the parlor, take a dollar and pay the ice cream for Conner, Patrick and for you."_

 _"Uhhh … 'k … thanks …" He stammered, big eyed, and then he hurried out, taking a deep breath the moment he was out of the house and on the street. He couldn't really deal with these things. He'd never had someone who'd told him to take money from his wallet, and he'd never had someone who'd given him money to pay ice cream for his friends either. He'd never had someone who'd told him to do what he wanted instead of to do what his father wanted, and he'd never had someone who'd taken his well-being and their responsibility seriously._

 _He'd forgotten his jacket when he'd left the house, but he didn't really care. It was cold, but he didn't care about that either. There was just a bit of snow falling at the moment, the flakes dancing slowly and softly towards the white ground, and the coldness he'd survive. Mrs. Mason's wasn't far away from Jethro's house, after all, and Pop's Soda Shoppe wasn't far away either._

 _He'd deal with the situation when he got home in the evening, or maybe Jethro had forgotten about it until then – or the man would just ignore it, knowing that he didn't like talking about it._

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter two – a visit by accident  
**

 **Or – fleas and a good book  
**

 **December 19** **th** **1939, Tuesday – Whitechapel Mount, Indiana, Hathaway Academy**

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

"Good afternoon, Mr. Forester." Hereweald Hrothgar said, entering the drug store in New Heaven's Valley, and he stamped his feet for a moment to get rid of the snow before he quickly closed the door to keep the harsh wind that had arisen over the past hour, increasing into a storm, out of the shop.

"Professor Hrothgar." The apothecary said, looking up, smiling. "It's been a while, what can I do for you?"

"I need a few things." He said, reaching the list he'd made over to the man.

"Let's see, test tubes … ammonia solution … sodium hydroxide solution … hydrochloric acid … magnesium sulphate …" The man read through his list, nodding his head. "Ah, for the formalin and the liquid nitrogen you'll have to sign a receipt."

"Of course." He answered, inclining his head – after all, he always had to sign for these two, and there was a reason as to why he had to sign for them.

"Calvin, would you please look for these things while I get the formalin and the liquid nitrogen?"

"Yes, sir." The boy – whom he'd never before seen in the drug store – answered.

"That's Calvin Macintyre." The man then said, taking two forms from a drawer and placing them in front of him together with a bottle of ink and a quill. "He's just started his apprenticeship as an apothecary, comes from the Whitechapel Mount High school, and for years he's taken any curse in chemistry and biology."

"Wouldn't that young man have to absolve college first?" He asked, frowning, because that was the new rule for several years now if you wanted to become a pharmacist. Not that the colleges brought forth a lot of genius people, clearly not, in his opinion. If you were a lazy butt, and he knew enough of those lazy butts, then it didn't matter the school you visited. But well, that was neither here nor there.

"Sure." Mr. Forester shrugged his shoulders. "But at a college he wouldn't have a chance while in chemistry and biology that boy is a genius. He is interested and he is able to work hard, and that's all I care about. Abigail has no interest in chemistry, nor in math or biology, and she won't take over the store once I'm too old for the job. She's rather interested in fairy tales and in legends, in myths and in stories – so why should I deny this young man a chance? And I need a help and an heir."

"He wouldn't be able to work for any other drug store or the large pharmacy laboratories." He said, reading through the forms. Of course he trusted Mr. Forester, the man was not only very capable and a trustworthy man, too, but a good natured man who would never harm anyone – but he was signing an official form, after all, of course he'd first read through what he'd sign.

"I have no interest in the large pharmacy laboratories, sir." The boy said, carrying a basket with the things on the list – except for the formalin and the liquid nitrogen which Mr. Forester had to get personally. "And I see no reason in working at any other drug store while I have a good job here, with the prospect of overtaking the shop one day."

"While you have a good job here, and good future perspectives, too, Mr. Macintyre, you might consider an education that might be helpful should something happen to this little shop – which I won't hope." He said, addressing the young man. "I understand your reasoning, and I, too, think that good hard work and a decent apprenticeship might be more valuable than going through college half-heartedly, nevertheless should you think over it."

"I have thought over it, sir." The boy said, standing before him and looking up at him. "This drug store is my home, and this small town has become my family – we have made this decision together, to go the old and traditional ways."

"Hmmm." He said, slowly nodding his head at the boy in front of him. "In this case I will bestow my best wishes upon you, young man. The old and traditional ways are not always the worst ways. They might not bring big wealth and great success, but they are honourable and worthwhile."

"Thank you, sir." The boy said, smiling up at him and for a moment he wondered why his opinion seemed important to the boy. He was a stranger in town, after all.

"What do you get for it?" He asked, turning back to the counter and to the owner of the store.

"It's three dollars and eighty cents." The man said, and he nodded his head, taking the coins from his pocket. It was a reasonable sum the man had named, and he was satisfied with it. In Whitechapel Mount City he might have saved a few cents, but he knew that the quality wasn't as good as was the quality here in Mr. Forester's store.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Macintyre." He said before turning back to the older man, taking the bag from the counter. "Thank you, Mr. Forester, and good afternoon, to you, too."

"Good afternoon, Professor." The man said, smiling. "And merry Christmas to you." Mr. Forester added and he grimaced at alone the thought of the holidays. He didn't believe in Christmas, in Santa, in this soft and bright and shiny thing that was Christmas, and he was glad that he would – _'celebrate'_ – the holidays alone at Hathaway. Maybe he'd enjoy two fingers – or maybe more – together with Hendrik, and of course he'd partake in the dinner on Christmas Eve, for the sake of those few students who had remained at Hathaway for the holidays. But other than that, he'd keep as far away as possible from that blasted thing that was called Christmas.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Conner** **Uí Ceallaigh**

"Just out of interest – how are you doing it?" Walter asked, and he frowned at the other boy.

"How am I doing what?" He asked, not really understanding.

They had met at Mrs. Masons, Walter, Patrick and him, and they'd taken a candy each from the glass on the counter, sucking happily at the sweetie, while looking through the shop.

There were shelves with ink bottles and different quills, pencils and with crayons, with erasers, rulers and with sharpeners. On other shelves there where books and paper blanks, writing paper and envelopes, brown paper and packing thread, post cards, and many, many other things he didn't exactly know what they could be used for. And behind the counter were bottles with ink and a lot of different small bottles where Mrs. Mason would fill in the ink she sold, a small bottle that lasted for a few weeks only, costing twenty-five cents, but if you brought your own glass bottle for Mrs. Mason to re-fill, then the ink would cost only fifteen cent.

Well, he had chosen a simple paper blank that cost twenty cents only. He could have taken one that had a nicer cover, and that had a hard cover, too, but that would have been sixty cents and as he needed a pencil, a sharpener and an eraser, too, he couldn't really afford the expensive things. He wouldn't have enough money left for the ice cream they were to eat later, anyway, so he'd just take a glass of milk then.

They'd seen one paper blank with a hard cover, and with a lock, too, something that had been very tempting, but that had cost two and a half dollars, and that was something he couldn't afford in a million years.

"Well, this bible study things." Walter said. "How are you doing it?"

"That's easy." He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm reading the bible, preferably at the church, because there's always someone there whom I can ask if I need help. And the most important things I write in the paper blank, or some thoughts, I can write in the paper blank, too."

"That doesn't sound too hard." Walter said, slowly, thinking. "You know, I have a few cents left from my pocket money." The boy then added, taking a paper blank, too.

"What about the ice cream?" Patrick asked, counting his own few cents, and it was clear that he wanted to be in it, too, the other boy having ten cent his mom had given him for the test and another ten cent he'd saved from his pocket money. It would be enough for either the paper blank or the ice cream, but not for both.

"Jethro gave me a dollar for all of us." Walter said. "That's more than enough. Buy that paper blank, Patrick. I'll pay for your pencil, and the eraser and the sharpener we could still share."

"Great." The boy said, taking a paper blank, too.

"That means we're going to study together." He called out, happily.

"I dare doubting a successful outcome of any studies if Mr. Sherman is involved." A cold and snarky voice sneered, and turning he stood before the most creepy and scary person he'd ever seen. Even Dorian and Damien would have been scared, he was sure of that.

"Good afternoon, Professor Hrothgar." Walter said, and he looked over at the other boy who clearly knew the man – well, even Walter seemed to be more than just uncomfortable in the stranger's presence.

"So, here you are living now." The man said, his voice deep and cold, and his eyes black and cold, his clothes old fashioned, black and buttoned up to the chin, his eyebrow lifted to a point where it nearly vanished beneath the man's black hair that was hanging in dump strands, dotted with melting flakes of white snow what gave the creepy man a nearly funny touch, but anything else on that man wasn't funny, not one bit, and so he better didn't start laughing now. "I should have known that you would chose a place such as this small town for living. On the other hand, I cannot help giving congratulations for your decision on finally taking your life in your own hands and making the best out of your situation."

Whoa …

That was strange! Who would use this kind of speech? How old was this guy? Five hundred years old? And who would understand the meaning of those words, just by the way?

"Thank you, sir." Walter said, frowning, clearly feeling as perplexed as was he. "And merry Christmas."

"Hmpf." The man made, glaring at Walter before turning and starting his own shopping.

"Let's go." Patrick whispered, nudging him with his elbow, and it was clear that the other boy was as scared as was he, and he nodded in agreement.

"That's forty-five cents, Conner." Mrs. Mason said when he put the paper blank, the pencil, the eraser and the sharpener on the counter. The woman put everything into a paper bag, and smiling she handed the bag over to him when he put the money on the counter, mumbling a "sorry" for the many small coins.

"Never mind that, boy." The woman laughed, counting them. "Now I have at least enough change."

He waited until Walter and Patrick had paid for their things, and then he quickly ushered them out of the shop and into the coldness and the approaching twilight.

The snowfall had increased meanwhile, the thick and large, heavy snowflakes coming down like a white curtain, and somehow this heavy curtain seemed to swallow the sounds around them to a muffled something – it was like a picture from a fairy tale, and for a moment he took a deep breath.

"Who was that?" He then asked, looking at Walter, still shocked.

"That's been my old Chemistry Professor from Hathaway." Walter laughed.

"My, was this guy scary!" Patrick gasped with relief.

"He is." Walter nodded his head. "And you won't get into trouble with him."

"Surely not." He agreed, because surely that man could become really, really, nasty – at least he now knew why Walter was so good in chemistry, and in biology and in math, too. If he had a teacher like this guy, then he'd surely be good, too.

They started hurrying towards Pop's Soda Shoppe, along Black Ash-Tree Lane, passing the fire department, and then they went into American Chestnut Avenue, passing the playground and finally Mr. Chandler's house. They were cold wet looking like snowmen when reaching Pop's Soda Shoppe, and quickly they hurried inside, stamping their feet to get rid of the snow and whipping the snow from their clothes and from their hair that started dripping with the melting snow flakes.

"Good afternoon, boys." Mr. Walton greeted them. "God in heaven, Walter, didn't you take a jacket when leaving the house? You're dripping wet and you'll catch your death!"

"I forgot it, Mr. Walton." The other boy answered, shrugging his shoulders, and shrugging his shoulders, too, he ushered them to a booth by the oven, waving over at the table in the corner where the Cleveland twins were sitting together with Abigail and Meghan, having ice cream, too – even though he was wondering if they shouldn't order hot chocolate instead of ice cream, Walter really looked as if he could do with something that got him warm.

"So, where do we get a bible?" Walter asked, looking at him expectantly. "Jethro doesn't have one."

"He doesn't believe in God, does he?" Patrick asked, leaning back against the soft leather of the backrest.

"Nope." The other boy shook his head. "And I see no way how to make him."

"How is it that you do, if your foster father doesn't?" He asked, just out of curiosity. "Did your parents believe in God?"

"Surely not!" The other boy laughed – and then coughed.

"So, how is it that you do?" Patrick asked.

"Well, Mr. Chandler, Mr. Cameron Chandler, had told us about God, and when I've been living on the roofs, I've been praying to God that he should send me someone who finally cared about me. I've never had someone who'd really cared about me, not even my head of house at Hathaway, and so I've asked God to send someone."

"And he'd sent you the fire chief, of all people." He huffed, shaking his head.

"Jethro is alright." Walter answered, shrugging his shoulders. "Sometimes he's grumpy, a little bit, but he took me in without conditions, without questions, and without any ifs, and he's taking good care of me. He's even giving me things my parents wouldn't, and he's doing things with me my parents wouldn't, like going to the lake, fishing, or climbing. God has given me someone who's taking care of me, just like I asked of him, so why should I not believe in God?"

"That's a word." Patrick said, smiling.

"It's three dollars for a bible." He said, sighing. "I got mine from mom for my birthday."

"I don't think that Jethro would buy a bible for me." Walter huffed, shaking his head. "I guess I'll have to save my pocket money for some time."

"Maybe I could earn a bit of money with washing cars?" Patrick mused. "That could work."

"It could." He agreed. "And until then, we can share mine."

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

"Hereweald!" A voice he knew very well, came from behind just the moment he placed the paper, the quills and the empty ink bottles for Mrs. Mason to refill on the counter, and taking a deep breath he turned towards the theologian.

"Chandler." He calmly greeted the man back, refusing to use his given name, like always.

"It's a rare occasion, seeing you here in town." The other man said. "What happened?"

"The need of refilling my stocks happened." He huffed at the man – as if his presence in this godforsaken town here were a miracle. Neither was he here for the first time, nor would it be the last time.

"Of course." The theologian smiled. "Where will you stay for the night?" The man then asked, and he frowned. "I could offer you a bed in my guestroom."

"Really, Chandler." He sneered at the other teacher. "The distance between Hathaway and New Heaven's Valley isn't more than ten miles and even in winter manageable within a thirty-minute range in the worst case. There won't be need for a stay for the night. I'll be home before nightfall as this is my last stop here."

"I fear not." The man now seriously said. "I thought you knew – the road is closed off. Chief Benson has closed it off just two hours ago."

"What exactly do you mean with – the road is closed off?" He asked, more than just a bit annoyed. He'd come down here just two hours ago, after all! And back then everything had been fine. There had been a bit of snow on the streets, here and there a bit more than just a bit, but he'd still been able to drive the car down the street.

"Well, due to the heavy snowfall for days, it's been hard for the snowploughs to clear away the snow and ice." Chandler calmly said and he scowled at the man. "And now there's a blizzard coming from the south, approaching over Little Bear's Peak while another storm is approaching from the east, closing in over Devil's Peak. The township fears that both storms will rage over New Heaven's Valley and its neighbouring areas."

"Then I'll just take the longer route over Black Willow Lane and the baseball pitch." He huffed, angrily. Of course he wouldn't spend the night in this town! Anything but _that_!

"The chief has closed off _any_ road, Hereweald, I fear you're stuck here in New Heaven's Valley." Chandler shook his head. "There's no way out until the snowstorm is over and the road's cleared off the worst snow and anything else the storm had wreaked in its wake."

"That remains to be seen." He growled, angrily. "I have no intentions of remaining here for any longer than necessary."

"Like I said, I fear you won't have a choice." The man said, actually looking apologetically, and that made him just the more angry. "But really, you could stay in my guestroom, and maybe you could celebrate Christmas together with us."

"Thank you, but no." He finally sighed. "I'll just take a room in the motel – if necessary – and by tomorrow I'll be gone, enjoying my solitude and privacy for the holidays."

"As you wish." Chandler finally said, shrugging his shoulders. "But it really wouldn't be a problem."

"Maybe not." He growled. "But neither will it be a problem for me, mixing something into your coffee that will cause some – unwanted effects."

"Of course it won't." The man smiled at him and he felt the urge to close his eyes with desperation. People already smiled at him, not taking him seriously! He'd show him!

"Good afternoon." He said after having paid his things, and he took the paper back Mrs. Mason had packed him.

"Good afternoon, Hereweald." Chandler waved after him. "And merry Christmas to you."

He'd kill the very next person that wished a merry Christmas to him, he swore when leaving the shop, and he'd first have a word with the Sheriff before taking a room in the motel – maybe the man would allow him to pass the shutoff. But then, looking up at the sky – or rather _trying_ to look up at the sky, because actually he couldn't see the sky due to the snowfall – he didn't think that the man would, because the snowstorm was already approaching.

Crossing the street he approached the police station and then he entered the old building with the bars on the windows.

"Hello, sir." The man in the office behind the counter said. "Can I help you?" The officer then added, and for a moment he was inclined to tell the man that – surely he didn't know if he was able to help him, but that he may of course try it. But seeing that he wanted the man to cooperate and leave him driving up Whitechapel Mount, he better kept that bit of thinking to himself – even though in his opinion a grown man should know the difference between _'can'_ and _'may'_.

"Perhaps." He said. "I'm from Whitechapel Mount and should leave this small town as I have a student residing at Hathaway."

"I'm really sorry, sir, but that won't be possible." The man said, shaking his head. "The Sheriff and the Chief are already on their way to secure the access roads, making the lower areas storm-proof, and McIory isn't here to rescue anyone who got stuck out there. Surely you are not the only teacher at Hathaway staying at school during the Christmas Holidays together with some of the students?"

"Of course not." He said, because surely he couldn't outright lie to the man. "But that doesn't change the little fact that I should be present as I am his house teacher."

"I really understand your situation." The man said, annoying him immensely, because the man's understanding didn't help him at all. "And I'm really sorry, but I fear that I can't help you there –" what was the reason as to why his question should have been _'may'_ I help you instead of _'can'_ I help you, "- you'll have to take a room in the motel."

"Of course." He growled, turning to leave the department, knowing that it would be fruitless to try and argue with the man.

"Goodbye." The man behind the counter said. "And merry Christmas."

For a moment he wondered if it were appropriate to kill a police officer due to the idiot wishing him a merry Christmas, but then he took a deep breath and ignored the wishes, realizing that it would not be appropriate, and he just gave a nod of acknowledgement before he left the house, closing the door and with his head bowed he fought against the snow when walking back towards the stationery and then turned right towards the motel. He'd take a room for the night, and he'd call Hendrik to have an eye on Mr. Constantin while he was stuck here, trying to survive the small town.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Gwyneth McFlaherty**

"Bye dear." She said, giving the other woman a quick embrace and then she quickly hurried over to her car.

If she wanted to get home before the snowstorm hit full force – and before Cole would close down the street – then she really should hurry. She knew that the Police from Whitechapel Mount City wouldn't close the roads anytime soon, only if the trucks slid down the road sideways. The Whitechapel Mount City officials didn't work that way, didn't try to prevent things. They'd rather react _after_ an accident had happened, and sometimes she thought that the large town didn't care if one of their citizen died, they had enough citizens, after all.

Of course she knew that she was being unfair, and of course she knew that she was wrong in her way of thinking, too, but she couldn't help it. It was a large city, and she didn't like large cities. It was loud in the streets of the cities, it was cold, even in summer, it was dark, and it was rush. There were too many people hurrying along without looking up, without seeing anything, their destinations the only things on their minds, and there were too many cars in the cities, running through the streets without taking regard of others, the large houses casting shadows and everything seemed grey and stony.

She was happy the moment she was back to New Heaven's Valley, like always.

Kayleigh was always telling her that there was nothing she'd have to be scared of in the city, after all, Whitechapel Mount City was neither New York nor London, Tokyo or Hong Kong. There were thousands of cities that were larger than Whitechapel Mount City. She didn't like it anyway.

The car was rolling down the street and she released the clutch – a moment later there was an awful screeching and within seconds the air around her was filled with white smoke that came from the underhood. Quickly she disengaged the clutch and stopped the car, her heart beating furiously, and she left the car, looking helplessly for a moment, because surely the engine was burning or something like that … so what was she to do now? And what if the car exploded?

"I would say that car is dead." Mr. Ivanek called when reaching her together with Elijah Woodruff, Elizabeth's husband. Both, Elijah

and Mr. Ivanek, Elizabeth's neighbor, had been coming running down the street and Elijah opened the hood of the Elmore, allowing even more smolder to waver in the street.

"Be careful, Elijah." She called out, instinctively taking a step back.

"Don't worry, Mrs. McFlaherty." Mr. Ivanek shook his head. "Nothing will happen, there has just something blocked the engine and now it is dead. That's been it."

"But …" She shook her head, helplessly. "What do I do now?"

"Don't let that trouble you." Elijah said, turning to her and wiping his hand clean at his handkerchief – Elizabeth would be very happy about _that_ , she couldn't help thinking. "Just when you started they'd announced over the radio that several roads in the area have been closed off half an hour ago, due to the upcoming blizzard, and any road out of Whitechapel Mount City is amongst those mentioned."

"I'll share my room with you, aunty Gwyn." Little Amy piped up, approaching her together with Elizabeth who took the now dirty handkerchief from her husband's hands, not looking happy about the black stains in it.

"Aunty Gwyn will sleep in the spare room, Amy." The woman said, pushing her away from the car.

"But I can't …" She started, still not really sure what to do – or what to say.

"The only other option would be that you take a room in the hotel, and surely you'll not do that if we have a spare room, dear." Elizabeth calmly said. "Don't worry. We'll call Morgen and tell him, and tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow at the latest, the streets will be re-opened and Elijah will bring you home."

"Very well …" She said, sighing, running her hand over her face. There was nothing else she could do, so … a nice evening together with Elizabeth and her family it would be.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

"I need a room in this flea house." He growled, not caring to keep his anger under control – and surely not caring should he offend the owner of the motel with his comment. He was angry, he was not amenable with sleeping in the motel for the night, and surely he was anything than happy with the prospect of remaining in a small town such as this, where ninety-eight percent of the citizen were followers of a guy who'd been stupid enough to let people kill him without a reason.

"That makes fifteen dollars a months." The young guy behind the counter said, calmly. "And half a dollar for each flea you bring with you. Please make sure that they behave."

"Why – you filthy little …" He started hissing, leaning close to the man before taking a deep breath and getting himself calm again. "Be assured that one night in this bloody – flea house – will be enough. I'll be glad the moment I leave – and hopefully without having several fleas in company."

"I hope so, too, sir." The man seriously answered. "The fleas are not to be taken away. That will be half a dollar then – and ten cent for each flea in your company." The guy then added and he needed to take another deep breath before throwing a fifty cent coin at the counter.

"Room fourteen then." The man said, reaching a key with a small red sign that bore the number 14 in golden letters over the counter.

Wordlessly he took the key – after regarding the man with one last glare, and went towards the stairway that led upwards as clearly the ground floor held nothing but the counter and a large room with several tables for the visitors to have their meals – what he surely would not use. He'd eat in his room!

"First floor, second room on the right hand." The guy called after him and he huffed in annoyance. Surely he'd found the room without that idiot's help. He took the stairs and then went through the doorway that led to the first floor, entering a spacious common room that was equipped with a table and eight chairs. A telephone was situated at the wall opposite, and to its right there was … scowling he realized that he would have to share the bathroom and the shower with the other inhabitants of this floor.

Nice, really!

What a flea house!

Turning he went to the door with the number 14 on it, and without hesitation he opened it with the key, entering a small room with a table, two chairs, a bed without a bedside table, and a small wardrobe. There was a wash basin in a corner, curtains on the window, but otherwise the room was empty.

Great.

Really great – and throwing the door shut, he ran his hand over his face.

Taking a second look around the room, he noticed a burn in the table top, several staining, and a small bottle on the wash basin that reminded him at a glass bottle for mixing chemicals. Well – maybe another chemist had been living here, but if so, then surely the chemist had been living here for longer than just a few nights, because he'd clearly done an experiment, or two.

Resigning to his fate, he left the paper bag with the things from the stationery at the table, and then he left the room. He'd have to buy something to eat, if he was to remain here for the night, a good book and soap, because somehow he doubted that the motel would provide him with that – and surely he'd not use the soap from any other inhabitant here in this flea house, who knew what he'd get if he did.

Wordlessly he passed the counter, ignoring the smiling guy behind it, and he left the motel to step into the coldness. The storm had gathered power meanwhile the snowflakes thick and dent, and you couldn't see the other side of the street anymore, but he didn't really care. Neither was it the first time that he visited New Heaven's Valley, nor was it the first time that he was outside in a snowstorm, he'd find the library, and he'd find the grocery.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between snow and ice …**

 _The third chapter: in the thick of a storm …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	3. a stranger in town

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading …

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Added author's notes:**

This first chapter, the foreword, might give away the impression that the story might be a biography – _it is not_. I have only written it so that you might know, not all of what happens in a book is fiction. There are things which are very much reality for some people and even though the story in the book might be playing at a different place and to a different time, for different persons – sometimes part of it might be real for some people anyway, never mind if it is the story of one particular person, if it is the story of a nation, or if it is the story of how God can work miracles in people.

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smudge, bring brown rings caused by your coffee cup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _"First floor, second room on the right hand." The guy called after him and he huffed in annoyance. Surely he'd found the room without that idiot's help. He took the stairs and then went through the doorway that led to the first floor, entering a spacious common room that was equipped with a table and eight chairs. A telephone was situated at the wall opposite, and to its right there was … scowling he realized that he would have to share the bathroom and the shower with the other inhabitants of this floor._

 _Nice, really!_

 _What a flea house!_

 _Turning he went to the door with the number 14 on it, and without hesitation he opened it with the key, entering a small room with a table, two chairs, a bed without a bedside table, and a small wardrobe. There was a wash basin in a corner, curtains on the window, but otherwise the room was empty._

 _Great._

 _Really great – and throwing the door shut, he ran his hand over his face._

 _Taking a second look around the room, he noticed a burn in the table top, several staining, and a small bottle on the wash basin that reminded him at a glass bottle for mixing chemicals. Well – maybe another chemist had been living here, but if so, then surely the chemist had been living here for longer than just a few nights, because he'd clearly done an experiment, or two._

 _Resigning to his fate, he left the paper bag with the things from the stationery at the table, and then he left the room. He'd have to buy something to eat, if he was to remain here for the night, a good book and soap, because somehow he doubted that the motel would provide him with that – and surely he'd not use the soap from any other inhabitant here in this flea house, who knew what he'd get if he did._

 _Wordlessly he passed the counter, ignoring the smiling guy behind it, and he left the motel to step into the coldness. The storm had gathered power meanwhile the snowflakes thick and dent, and you couldn't see the other side of the street anymore, but he didn't really care. Neither was it the first time that he visited New Heaven's Valley, nor was it the first time that he was outside in a snowstorm, he'd find the library, and he'd find the grocery._

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter three – a stranger in town**

 **Or – in the thick of a storm  
**

 **December 19** **th** **, 1939, Thursday – New Heaven's Valley**

 **Viewpoint of Jethro Chandler**

He looked up when the door opened.

The boy had got a key to the house shortly after child welfare had made the boy his foster son, because there was no way that the boy could only then enter the house, if he, Jethro, was at home. The word foster-son contained the word – 'son' – and that meant family. The boy was – at least for the time being – his child … and that meant that this house was his home, and that on the other hand meant that he needed a key.

And there was no need for him to be a bloody Christian like all the others in town to see it the way it was, because it was a logical consequence and nothing else.

"Hi Jethro." The boy said, coming into the kitchen where he was marinating steaks for dinner, and he frowned.

"If I remember it correctly, and I'm sure I do, then you are the owner of a dark brown winter jacket." He said.

The boy was soaking wet. He'd apparently stroke the snow off his hair and clothes, but there were still white spots here and there.

"I've forgotten it when I left." The boy looked at him apologetically, nearly helplessly shrugging his shoulders. Well, he was sure that the boy had made such haste to leave the house, and therefore the uncomfortable situation that afternoon, that he'd forgotten the jacket, and after realizing that he'd forgotten it because it's been cold out there, he'd rather not cared instead of going back to get it. "I didn't realize that there would a snowstorm coming up."

"Dry your hair." He said, handing the boy a towel and directing him upstairs and into the direction of the bathroom where he filled the bathtub with hot water. "Get rid of these wet clothes – and then take a hot bath."

He added peppermint oil to the hot water, and a few other herbs that damn Indian always gave him the moment he was sneezing or coughing, as if that bloody man feared he'd get ill the moment he was just sneezing. But well, those herbs finally were good for _something_ , so he just shrugged his shoulders and put them into the water.

He went back to the kitchen, giving the boy the freedom to take his bath in peace, and put water on the stove for tea. He mixed his special tea – only leaving out the whiskey – and then waited for the boy to come back from the bathroom.

It would be steaks and beans for dinner, and after that he'd have the boy going to bed soon instead of partaking in the gaming evening Emily had planned for tonight.

Not that Walter would sleep the moment he was in bed, surely not.

Walter was a boy that had never been taken care of. There had been no one who'd told him when to partake in meals, when to go to bed, and when to dress properly. No one had made sure that the boy had enough sleep, and no one had made sure that he had a well ordered daily routine, neither his parents, nor his teachers up there at Hathaway.

He'd never visited a boarding school, but the concept of a house teacher seemed more to him than what this man called Kermit Frogman had offered, and in his opinion this teacher had taken the money for his job without really caring about the children entrusted to him. But what else could you expect from a teacher that worked at a boarding school for difficult boys?

Frowning he looked back at the door for a moment, because Walter was no difficult child. Walter was anything but difficult, now that he had an adult who took care of him. Not to mention that it's been the boy's parents who'd put him into that boarding school, due to their wish for freedom, because there was nothing wrong with him.

He didn't give contradictions, he didn't give cheeky answers, he didn't ignore what he was telling him, and he didn't refuse obeying him – no, the only things which made it difficult from time to time handling the boy, were things caused due to the little fact that he'd never had anyone who'd taken care of him, because he wasn't used to someone taking care of him, because he'd learned how to take care of himself.

"Dinner's ready." He said the moment the boy came down the staircase, taking the pan with the beans from the stove. He put the steaks on two plates and placed them on the table, and then he just took the cup with the tea for the boy. "Drink that." He then ordered. "It's my special tea, it'll keep you from getting a cold – hopefully."

"Peppermint … anise … fennel …" The boy said, sniffing at the tea and he nodded. "Camomile … ginger … and caraway. You know, that smells like old socks or something like that, and honey to make the old socks more bearable."

"Drink it while it's still hot." He huffed at the boy's explanation. "You have it correct, however, except of the old socks. Your chemistry teacher would be proud of you."

"Don't remind me." The boy chuckled, pushing the plate aside and taking the cup. "We've met him at Mrs. Mason's."

"So?" He asked, looking up at the boy, watching him carefully. Of course he'd heard of _'professor Hrothgar'_ , and not only from the boy, but from other people, too – a teacher that hated children, students, teaching, and anything else that had to do with his job, and a man that acted upon his hatred, harassing the students and other teachers alike.

"We've bought paper planks and pencils to start studying the bible." The boy said, grimacing at the tea he'd taken a sip from. "Conner said, he'd started a bible study class at church, and so Patrick and I decided to come too."

There was a short hesitation in the boy's voice, and he knew that Walter had for a moment considered that he, Jethro, could maybe tell him off for it, tell him that – no, he couldn't go to visit that class. But then the boy continued, mentally shrugging his shoulders and he knew that he hadn't asked for his permission because this was some of the things the boy always decided for himself, and so he nodded at the boy to go on speaking.

"Well, Conner, Patrick and I have decided to study together, and as you've given me the money for the ice cream, Patrick and I had some pennies left for a paper blank and a pencil. Conner was happy about it, because we're really friends and it will be great if we're doing this together. And he'd said it, and then Professor Hrothgar came in. He'd heard it and then he'd said something like – _'I dare doubting a successful outcome of any studies if Mr. Sherman is involved'_ , startling Conner and Patrick – and me. Really, it was a typical Hrothgar remark, and I should be used to it, but I didn't expect him in New Heaven's Valley."

Well, knowing Patrick and his family – or rather their lack of financial resources, he guessed that Walter had taken care of either the pencil or the paper blank, even though the boy had not mentioned it. He'd never do that.

"From what I've heard about that teacher, he has taken the wrong job." He huffed, narrowing his eyes at the boy who ignored the steak and the beans but kept the warm cup of tea in both his hands to warm them up.

"He really knows his stuff like no one else." The boy shrugged his shoulders. "He's the best when it comes to chemistry."

"Then he should have become a chemist working in a laboratory instead of teaching children." He huffed.

"Maybe." The boy sighed, tiredly – and then: "I'll go to bed, I'm tired."

Well, he would have an eye on the boy if he went to bed by free will, and at an early evening hour no less, because normally he wouldn't do that.

"Take the warm winter blanket from the wardrobe in your room." He said. "You've had the light one for long enough and it's high time for the warmer one."

"'k." Was the answer when the boy left the kitchen, and now he knew that he better took a look into the boy's room during the night, because it was the first time this winter that he really agreed on taking the warmer blanket.

 _'It's too warm in my room for that'_ the boy would say, or _'the other blanket is too heavy'_ he'd say, but if he agreed to really using it, then it was worrisome.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

He'd gone to the library, fighting against the snowstorm, and he'd chosen _"But nothing more than a memory"_ , surely a rubbish trash-book he'd throw in the dustbin without even looking at it if he were in normal circumstances, but he wasn't and it was one of the few books that didn't contain Christ, Christianity, the Bible, God or anything similar.

He'd start reading it to kill the time until the snowstorm had ceased and the roads were open again without having to partake in any socializing activities a one horse town such as this offered. Nothing worse than that!

Leaving the library he'd held his breath for a moment when the icy wind had hit his face, and he'd needed a moment to adapt to the storm. It had become dark already, and with the storm and the heavy snowfall, he'd barely been able to see the hand before his eyes.

For a moment he'd even considered going back to the motel, but then he'd furrowed his brows. If he didn't want to partake in any common meals in the motel, and he didn't, then he had no other choice than fighting his way through the storm, looking for the grocery – and he'd managed fairly well.

There was a guy standing by the vegetables, talking with Chandler, and he couldn't help smirking, as finally there was the proof that this small town wasn't a one hundred percent church town but a ninety-nine percent church town only – because surely this guy was no church goer.

He was wearing black clothes, with fur gaiters covering the lower parts of his calves, a heavy black cloak covering wide shoulders, and strands of wet black hair were hanging into the man's face – no, surely no person that would be welcomed in any kind of church.

"Emily is planning the Christmas party." Chandler said, not seeing him as he had his back turned on him, and he was glad about that. He had no inclination to hold a conversation with the man right now – it was enough that he had to converse with him during school-time. "She'll make Christmas ham, like last year, and she told me that people bring mashed potatoes, corn casserole and Brussel sprouts. You'll come, Sébastien?"

"Of course, I'm looking forwards to that." The black dressed man said and he frowned, because he hadn't thought that this man would partake in any form of Christian events. "I'm bringing gingerbread."

"Self-made?" Chandler asked and he rolled his eyes. Of course people would bring self-made things if coming to a party like that.

"Sure." The man answered, smiling, casting a short glance at him, Hereweald, and he huffed, packing a bit of cheese into his basket. "And Kayleigh and Gwyneth will bring apple- and pumpkin pie – with cream."

"Gwyn's apple pie is the best." Chandler nodded his head.

"Will Jethro come, too?" The dark figure asked.

"Surely not." Chandler said, shaking his head. "He isn't ready for that, he's just too stubborn."

"He's visiting service from time to time, lately." The man said, frowning, and now it really was clear that he was indeed a church goer, even though he could hardly believe it, the way the man looked like – like the right hand of Satan himself. What kind of church would allow a guy such as this to attend?

"Because of Walter only." Chandler shook his head, sighing, and he frowned. "Believe me, my brother wouldn't visit service by free will if it weren't for the boy. Jethro won't have any dealings with God."

"Do not be rush, Cameron." The man said. "For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he."

Looking up, startled, his cold black eyes met the warm but powerful black eyes of the man.

It was not what the man had said. It's been a sentence from the bible, written in the proverbs if he was not mistaken – and seeing that he was residing in a small town with 99 percent of Christians who knew the bible by heart … no, it was not _what_ the man had said, it was the way he'd said it, and it was the way he'd looked at him while saying it, not at Chandler but at him, Hereweald, as if he'd addressed him personally.

There was no answer from Chandler, and the other guy just nodded at him, leaving no doubt that yes, he'd indeed meant him.

"Good night, Cameron." The man then said, patting his shoulder. "And there's really no need to bring that book later. It's no night to venture outside." And he, Hereweald, turned to the counter. He had three rolls, cheese and a few Olives, and that would be enough for him. He had no inclination of having a conversation with Chandler and better left the grocery before meeting him and before having to listen to another Christmas wishes.

He'd go back to the motel quickly, and there he'd eat, read a few pages in the trash-book before going to bed, and by tomorrow morning he'd leave that small town as quickly as possible. Really, how deep he'd fallen, having to sleep in a flea-house such as the motel here in a town that was occupied by a horde of idiots who believed in a guy calling himself the son of God – something that was stupid in itself – and who had then idiotically allowed people to kill him, just like that, without even _trying_ to flee or change his predicament. If he really were the son of God, then it should have been an easy thing to turn the tables – but he hadn't, and that was proof enough for him that this Jesus guy had been either a liar or a lunatic.

"What defines us is the way how we rise after falling." The black clad man whispered when passing him, and again their eyes met, the man holding his eyes for a moment, narrowing them, but then the guy inclined his head in greeting, turned and left the shop.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Hendrik VanHarkins**

Hereweald had called him a few minutes ago, telling him that he was stuck in New Heaven's Valley, and he'd asked him to inform – and then look after – Mr. Constantin, and knowing where to find the boy, he went to the library. Johnny Constantin and Charles Irving were friends since the day they'd met for the first time when arriving here at Hathaway two years ago, despite the two boys being in different houses.

He'd just take Johnny into his house for the night. Most likely the two boys wouldn't be sleeping but playing around for the night, being happy for the sleep-over, but he didn't really mind that.

What he couldn't help turning over in his mind, however – and he couldn't help grinning at alone the thought – was Hereweald who was stuck in New Heaven's Valley, being forced to sleep in the motel for the night … or worse, meeting Cameron in the small town who made him sleeping in his spare room, a hilarious thought, and for a moment he didn't really know whom he'd pity more. But well, Hereweald had already taken a room in the motel, and so the chances of the greatest misanthrope having to live for the night with the biggest philanthropist, were rather small.

Entering the library he took a deep breath, taking in the smell of the old books, the heavy silence and the picture of old wooden shelves, tables and benches, and walking along the aisle, he took a look into the alcoves on both sides.

The library was one of his favourite places, and always had been – and nothing had changed in all those years since that time, since he'd come here for the first time, more than thirty years ago.

Back then, when he'd been a student here at Hathaway, together with Hereweald, they'd often met here in the library, because here they'd had their peace. Few students found their ways into the library, and even if they were in here, Monsieur Clermont, the librarian always made sure that there was dead silence in the large hall.

And today, the library was where he could find a good book from time to time as Monsieur Clermont didn't have school relate books only, but a good novel here and there, too. Not to mention that he could sit here, enjoying the peace and the stillness once in a while. Over the school year and over the day he had enough loud students around, in his house, in his class, and in the corridors, too – he did enjoy a bit of peace from time to time.

"Mr. Constantin." He whispered the moment he'd found the two boys, waving them to follow him out of the library where he then turned to the boy from the other house.

"Professor Hrothgar has called a few minutes ago, informing me about his absence tonight as he's stuck in New Heaven's Valley due to the snowstorm." He said the moment they had left the large hall. "Go to your house and pack a few things you'll need for the night, your pyjama, toothbrush and something for washing up, and then meet me at the canteen for dinner. You'll sleep in my house, tonight."

"Great." Charles smiled, being happy for having a guest, but Johnny didn't look too happy and for a moment he wondered why. But then he dismissed the thought. The situation was as it was, and he couldn't change anything about it. The boy would have to deal with it.

He watched both boys leaving the entrance hall, the heavy doors of the building squeaking and squealing, falling back close slowly and heavily after the two boys had left to fight their way through the storm into the direction of the Hrothgar house.

The school, halfway built into the mountain of Whitechapel Mount, consisted of nine buildings. There was the large main building where the classrooms and the library were, and of course the offices of the teachers and the headmasters, and away from the main entrance of the school, was a small street with houses on either side, leading to the east.

The first two houses were the canteen and the infirmary, and then came the different houses, the first two houses being the house of Eckbrecht and Cameron, the teachers for history and geography, and for religious education and ethics, and then came the two houses of Kermit and Mellard, the house of arts and the house of languages, as the students called them. And finally, at the end of the road and farthest away from the school building itself, were Hereweald's and his house, the houses of science. He didn't mind that he was farthest off, and neither did Hereweald, on the contrary. They had their peace and behind their houses were woods and wide lawns only, uninhabited land.

Yes, he liked this place here, he liked the small town down there between the mountains, and he liked the surrounding area with woods and lawns, with the wilderness that seemed untouched by human hand. This here had become his home, he didn't long for a house someplace where he could go to during his holidays. He'd travel here and there for the summer holidays, but otherwise this here was his home.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

Damn!

He'd never find back to the motel, and he'd surely walked circles at least two times – even though he wasn't so sure which circles exactly he'd walked.

The snowstorm had hit full force by now – at least that was what he guessed – and he couldn't see the hand before his eyes. He'd gone along Main Avenue, and then he'd turned right, but instead of finding the motel, he'd reached the end of a road, approaching a house that was completely unknown to him. He'd then gone back from where he'd come from, turning left to get back into Main Avenue, but somehow he'd ended up in American Chestnut Avenue.

Damn! Really!

He couldn't help admitting that he had lost his way!

He should have remained at the motel. If he had, then that bloody stranger hadn't disconcerted him with his strange comments – and with reading his thoughts, too – and if that man hadn't disconcerted him so much, then he wouldn't have lost his way, wandering through the snowstorm, being cold and wet. It was as easy as that.

Looking up at the street sign again, as if it would change if he read it a second time, he strained his eyes read the same street name – American Chestnut Avenue.

"Hereweald!" A voice called, but over the storm he couldn't really make out whose voice it was – thinking logically, however, there were only two possibilities, namely Wohehiv and Chandler calling his name as no one else in the town would know his given name, and he really hoped that it would be the first of the two. The man, however, approaching through the wall of snow, stepping out from the wall of snow as if stepping through a curtain, was no other than Chandler, and inwardly he groaned.

"What are you doing outside in this weather!" The man scolded, his voice raised over the snowstorm and he scowled.

"I'm doing a nice evening stroll through this nice little town of yours, enjoying the sunset and peace." He huffed. What else could he be doing during a snowstorm?

"Come in!" The man called, pulling him along a pathway, and he was so perplex, he didn't even fight the man's grip, nor his pulling, and a moment later they stood in the entrance of a house, brushing off the snow from their coats.

"I've brought a guest, Emily." The man called, taking off his coat and extending his hand to take his, too. And again he was so perplex, that he just took off his coat and then reached it over to the man who hang it at the wardrobe together with his scarf … because, really, what in heaven's name was Chandler doing there?

If they were friends, he could understand his actions, and if the man were Wohehiv, he could understand, too – but Chandler? Of all people? The guy whom he'd ignored at the best and made fun of at the worst? Openly giving away snide remarks to hurt him and to humiliate him?

"Welcome to our home." A young woman came through the corridor, drying her hands on a towel, greeting him. "I'm Emily Chandler. Cameron, please give our guest a pair of your warm socks. I've just made tea, and dinner's ready soon."

There was some fuss for a few moments, and before he could name all the ingredients to his latest chemistry experiment, he was wearing a pair of Chandler's socks and a girl – apparently Mary-Anne Chandler – had taken his hand, pulling him along, babbling something about her uncle Jethro coming, too.

Nice …

Really …

Nice …

"Care for a swig?" Chandler asked, lifting a whiskey bottle at him in question, and he nodded. For the first time today he'd received an acceptable question.

"Mom doesn't like that, uncle Cameron." The girl said, eyeing Chandler daringly.

"Why don't you just go and help your mom in the kitchen?" Chandler asked the girl, smiling, gesturing him to take a seat in the dining room and doing the same. "What made you leaving the motel in this storm, Hereweald?" The man then asked.

"Not even I, even though people call me a Vampire sometimes, can go without food." He growled, taking a swig of the whiskey and enjoying the sharp biting that ran down his throat.

The dining room was equipped with dark brown solid wood – an oval table covered with a white table cloth surrounded by six chairs, a sideboard situated on one wall, and a cupboard with glass doors.

"You could eat in the motel." Chandler said. "It's not a motel like those you find along the highways but nearly a hotel."

"You do not seriously think I'd partake in – meals there …" He huffed, glaring at the other man.

"Of course not." Chandler laughed, shaking his head. "After all, you're not even partaking in common meals at school if it isn't absolutely necessary. I hope you got everything you needed?"

"I did." He inclined his head. "Before I lost my way."

"Of course you did." Chandler huffed. "That's no weather to venture outside. I've been to Sébastien, bringing him a book I've promised him – it's two houses only, but I was glad the moment I was back before my door – and then I met you."

"I was sure I've been back to Main Avenue, and suddenly I stood in American Chestnut Avenue. Emily's your sister?" He then added, not ready to further admit his getting lost.

He knew that Chandler had his family in New Heaven's Valley, the only teacher that came from close by while most others came from other states or even other countries, like Oswald, Castillo or VanHarkins. However, he'd never imagined Chandler's family, and this Emily was a nice young lady, clearly younger than Chandler.

"My sister in law." Chandler answered. "She'd married our youngest brother. Julien has been a Navy Officer, and one day he just didn't come back from an assignment abroad. He'd died, leaving his wife and child behind, and ever since Jethro and I have taken care of Emily and Mary-Anne as good as possible."

"You're taking care of her in bringing a stranger in the middle of the night to her house." He couldn't help lifting his eyebrow at the man – who just laughed at him.

"Sure." Chandler then shrugged his shoulders. "No one in this small town would have a problem with that." The idiot then said, and he actually believed it. "No one would leave a stranger out there to freeze to death. Not to mention that you're no stranger but a colleague of mine."

"Jethro just called." The widow Chandler said, coming into the dining room, carrying a pot with something that deliciously smelled of stew. "They won't come for the gaming night. Walter's been outside without a jacket and came home wet to his bones. Jethro said he's been to bed early and he won't leave the boy alone."

"Walter Sherman?" He couldn't help asking. He'd met the boy this afternoon in the stationery, and he'd already noticed that he didn't have a jacket. But seeing that the boy didn't live at Hathaway anymore, he couldn't even have him in detention for not wearing a jacket outside in a cold weather such as this.

"Yes." Chandler said, nodding his head and taking the plates Mrs. Chandler was reaching him. "He'd been hiding here on the roofs for two summers, and last summer, Jethro had found him up there at Mount Eagle. The boy had been after two other boys who'd foolishly gone hiking the mountains."

"I'm sure that Mr. Sherman's parents have not been happy about the boy leaving their household." He said, taking the cutlery from Mrs. Chandler's hands and laying them at the table.

"No." The young woman said. "But Jethro has called child welfare into the situation, and after that, things went by quickly. Before the summer holidays had been over, Walter has been officially Jethro's foster-son."

"If it is true that the boy has been hiding on the roofs here for two summers, without his parents notifying school or police – which they didn't have or I would have known – I'm not surprised by that." He said, sitting back down. "It is evident that they didn't care about the boy. He was a status symbol to them like so many other children of the rich, and he'd been someone who'd inherit their firms and companies, nothing more."

"Unfortunately – that's true." Chandler said, sitting down, too, and then …

"Good evening, Lord." The man said, starting a prayer, and inwardly he groaned with frustration. "Thanks for leading Hereweald this way so that we have a guest at our table, and please look after Walter who's been outside without a jacket. It's the Christmas Holidays, your birth we're celebrating, and surely you won't have the boy being ill during that time. Thanks for a good meal, good company, and your presence here with us. Amen."

For a moment he actually wondered if he was supposed to say an amen, too, but then he scowled. Of course he wouldn't do such a thing, required or not. He'd never asked if one thing or another was required and he'd be dammed if he did that right now.

"May I have a roll, please?" The girl asked, and he lifted his eyebrow at her, because not only was the girl – that surely was not older than eleven or twelve years old – able to differ between the words _'can'_ , which most children erroneously used, and _'may'_ , but also was she able to use the word _'please'_ , something that was a foreign word to most children.

"You must be Professor Hrothgar." Emily said, pouring a glass of red wine. "Even here in New Heaven's Valley we hear of you, Professor."

"Thank you." He answered, not clarifying if he was thanking for the wine or for the comment about being well known throughout the country.

"Sorry, no offence meant." The woman smiled and he huffed at the gesture.

"No offence taken." He answered. "It is a satisfying thought to know that my reputation is well spread over the country."

"You know, Hereweald, people tend to changing if they resided too long in this small little town here." Chandler laughed and he lifted his eyebrow at the man.

"Not only have I no inclination of remaining any longer than necessary, but also note, that I do not have the wish to change." He growled. "An old dog won't learn new tricks – it's surely not worth the effort."

"Try and fail, but don't fail to try." Chandler answered, still smiling. "If you like going on water, you need to leave the boat."

"I'll leave that to you, Chandler, and remain on solid ground instead." He glared at the man.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Gwyneth McFlaherty**

Turning around in bed, she couldn't help thinking over the evening.

It really wasn't the first time that she was visiting a friend overnight, but it was the first time that she did it unplanned and unprepared. She hadn't prepared something for dinner, she didn't have someone who brought Angus to bed, she wouldn't be at home to say _'good night'_ to Meghan and Bradyn, and she didn't have her bible with her, either – nor her diary where she'd write a few sentences to God before going to sleep.

Well, of course she could write today's entry tomorrow when she was back home, and God wouldn't hold it against her if she didn't read in the bible today. Bradyn didn't need her to say _'good night'_ , anymore, and Morgen would be able to make dinner for himself and the children once, and to bring Angus to bed, respectively saying _'good night'_ to Meghan. There wasn't really a reason to worry, but it was a strange feeling anyway.

She'd borrowed a book from Elizabeth to read in bed for a few minutes before sleeping, to get her mind off her worries – _'The rains came'_ , by Luis Bromfield, but she'd soon put it aside, rather thinking over the day and having a chat with God, because the book was a stereotype story about the English colonies in India, about love and violence, and about intrigues – she didn't need that kind of stuff.

They had had dinner, and then they had been playing games, they'd talked and had fun, and then they'd been drinking a glass of red wine.

Turning in bed again, she sighed.

Well – so, since today they didn't have a car anymore.

She didn't really mind that. If God wanted her to being without a car for the moment, then he'd surely have a reason for that, whatever reason that would be, she wouldn't know.

Elizabeth and her husband didn't understand her way of thinking. For them it's been bad luck, and they'd already thought about what to do, how to get a new car for her, looking through the newspaper and thinking about whom of their friends would have a spare car.

Taking a deep breath, and turning around to face the wall, Gwyneth was still trying to sleep, but somehow she had the feeling that it would be a short night.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between roses and peppermint …**

 _The fourth chapter: a truck is rolling over ice …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	4. but nothing more than a memory

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading …

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Added author's notes:**

This first chapter, the foreword, might give away the impression that the story might be a biography – _it is not_. I have only written it so that you might know, not all of what happens in a book is fiction. There are things which are very much reality for some people and even though the story in the book might be playing at a different place and to a different time, for different persons – sometimes part of it might be real for some people anyway, never mind if it is the story of one particular person, if it is the story of a nation, or if it is the story of how God can work miracles in people.

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smudge, bring brown rings caused by your coffee cup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _Turning around in bed, she couldn't help thinking over the evening._

 _It really wasn't the first time that she was visiting a friend overnight, but it was the first time that she did it unplanned and unprepared. She hadn't prepared something for dinner, she didn't have someone who brought Angus to bed, she wouldn't be at home to say 'good night' to Meghan and Bradyn, and she didn't have her bible with her, either – nor her diary where she'd write a few sentences to God before going to sleep._

 _Well, of course she could write today's entry tomorrow when she was back home, and God wouldn't hold it against her if she didn't read in the bible today. Bradyn didn't need her to say 'good night', anymore, and Morgen would be able to make dinner for himself and the children once, and to bring Angus to bed, respectively saying 'good night' to Meghan. There wasn't really a reason to worry, but it was a strange feeling anyway._

 _She'd borrowed a book from Elizabeth to read in bed for a few minutes before sleeping, to get her mind off her worries – 'The rains came', by Luis Bromfield, but she'd soon put it aside, rather thinking over the day and having a chat with God, because the book was a stereotype story about the English colonies in India, about love and violence, and about intrigues – she didn't need that kind of stuff._

 _They had had dinner, and then they had been playing games, they'd talked and had fun, and then they'd been drinking a glass of red wine._

 _Turning in bed again, she sighed._

 _Well – so, since today they didn't have a car anymore._

 _She didn't really mind that. If God wanted her to being without a car for the moment, then he'd surely have a reason for that, whatever reason that would be, she wouldn't know._

 _Elizabeth and her husband didn't understand her way of thinking. For them it's been bad luck, and they'd already thought about what to do, how to get a new car for her, looking through the newspaper and thinking about whom of their friends would have a spare car until the old Ford would be rideable._

 _Taking a deep breath, and turning around to face the wall, Gwyneth was still trying to sleep, but somehow she had the feeling that it would be a short night._

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter four – but nothing more than a memory**

 **Or – lost slippers and bare feet**

 **December 20** **th** **, 1939, Wednesday – New Heaven's Valley**

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

 _For a moment the irregular blinking of the neon lamps in the hospital hall reached through his awareness and he realized that one of the bullets must have hit a lamp or maybe the electrical panel – after all, the guy had shot haphazardly around the room, not even taking aim at anything … and maybe luckily so._

 _For another moment he wondered why the blinking of the neon lamps was reaching through his awareness without annoying him, because actually it was annoyingly, but then he shrugged it off. It wasn't important. There was something that was more important than that, but he didn't really remember what it was. He knew that it had to do with brown eyes, but he didn't really remember what exactly it was._

 _There was a sizzling sound – maybe the electrical sizzling from the neon lamps, or from the electrical panel the guy had hit – but other than that there was no sound, not even the shoots from the guy he could hear, even though he was still firing off bullet after bullet, but they seemed without a sound._

 _Looking down, frowning, there was blood on his hands and he wondered why, because he wasn't hit, and then the guy was landing on the floor with a soft 'thud', just like that, and he couldn't understand. And suddenly the hallway was back to silence except for the soft sizzling of the electrical panel, or the neon lamps which still were blinking irregularly – and suddenly very annoyingly, grating on his nerves, while the assassin lay at the ground, staring at him with dead, accusing eyes._

 _Looking down on his blood stained hands again, he looked over at another dead body beside him, brown eyes staring at him … and finally he knew what …_

"No …" He gasped when waking, sitting up in his bed and trying to look around through the darkness.

The neon lamps, far away, were still blinking and taking a deep breath he patted the darkness around himself, trying to find the dead body, wondering why the floor in the hallway was so soft, and who, for heaven's sake, had put all those pillows and blankets on the floor?

"Damn." He whispered. "Where …"

And then it hit him – he wasn't in the hospital. He was in Damn New Bloody Heaven's Blasted Valley, and he was stuck here due to the snowstorm that had hit the small town and due to an idiot sheriff who had closed off the roads.

Blinking off the sleep, he tried to get awake.

What time …

And what was …

Taking the fob watch from the pocket of his trousers, he squinted his eyes to look at it in the semi-darkness, taking his time until he realized that it was barely seven o'clock in the morning … but still, what …

He'd had a not so bad evening with Chandler and his sister in law, having a glass of red wine, or two, and being forced to deal with the man for longer than a few minutes like he was at school, he had to admit that Chandler was a guy one actually could converse with without going insane. There was a comment or another that he better ignored, like the one about going on water and leaving the boat, but other than that – he could converse with the man without the wish for killing him within the first ten seconds. He'd remember that for future notice, when he was back at school, because conversing with Chandler would be much better than conversing with most others of his colleagues, Hendrik, O'Hara and Clermont excluded.

Frowning he looked around, trying to find the source of the blinking light …

The neon lamps in the hospital hadn't been blinking. The hallway had been bathed in bright light, showing the horrible picture in all its gruesome details, the dead, the blood, the brown eyes … no blinking light …

Stumbling out of bed he went to the window, and pulling open the heavy curtains, he tried to look through the fogged over glass pane – in vain. Damn! He needed to know what …

He yawned, ran his hand over his face for a moment, and then opening the window he allowed the iciness and about a ton of snow into the room, thick and heavy white flakes forcing their way into the warm room in a merciless attack, or perhaps rather like being on a suicide mission, melting in the warmth, but he didn't really care about that and staining his eyes into the direction of the blinking light that was cutting through the darkness of the early morning hours and the heavy blanket of snow, he finally realized – it was the blinking of the advertising sign. Nothing else than the blinking of that damn advertising sign, and slowly he forced the window close again, leaning with his hands onto the windowsill for a moment to take a deep breath.

Well – he was awake, as tired as he still was, and so he could just get up and ready for the day.

It's been late last night.

Mrs. Chandler had offered him a bed in her spare room and Cameron Chandler had told him that it would be a better idea than trying to get to the motel during the storm – he'd just sleep on the sofa in the parlour instead of gping home, too. He'd made it clear that he'd wait off the worst of the storm, and then he'd go back to the motel before the second blizzard that was promised would hit full force, and after some attempts of persuading him, in vain, Chandler had accompanied him to the motel during the few moments while they could at least see the next side of the road, making sure that he wouldn't lose his way again.

The blinking of the advertising sign had been annoying him last night already, he now remembered, and so he'd started reading the book, out of pure desperation, even though he'd been tired.

 **Flashback**

 _Having two choices he took the book he'd got from the library, because really, lying in bed and turning from one side to the other was no option. And so he'd started reading, his brain stopping its work soon, because really, this was trash and surely no book worth being read with a clear and open mind._

 _·_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _·_

 _But nothing more than a memory._

 _"She'll always be with you." People said. "She'll always be in your heart, and you'll never really lose her." People said._

 _It's all started with the day he'd had fallen in love._

 _He'd been young, and he'd been a fool – and he'd fallen in love._

 _He remembered it as if it had been yesterday. He'd been sitting in a canteen in Cambridge, at Harvard University to be exact, and he'd just started lunch the moment she'd entered, a beauty he wouldn't forget, ever, and since that very time he'd been unable to concentrate on his studies._

 _Well, he hadn't had a stipend. And he hadn't had rich parents either. His visiting university, he'd worked hard for that – and here he'd been, being unable to concentrate on his studies._

 _"Go after her, lad." The gardener of the university had said when he'd talked to him one day, telling him his woes. "An' just ask her out. You'll never be able to finish your studies if you don't."_

 _Well, and he'd done that – going after the girl – and he'd asked her out, because the gardener was known for giving away the best advises ever, always being correct. And what had the girl done?_

 _"Sorry, but no." She'd said, smiling at him, apologetically. Nothing else, than 'sorry, but no'. No explanation, no 'try another time', nothing but 'sorry, but no'._

 _Now, he was no one who gave up easily, and so he'd tried it again – and again – and again … until, one day:_

 _"You won't stop asking me out before I won't say yes once?" She'd asked, and he'd smiled at her, shaking his head no, and so she'd sighed. "Alright." She'd then said. "But you pay the bill."_

 _Well – of course he'd do that._

 _Like already mentioned – he wasn't rich and he didn't have rich parents either, but what kind of demand was that? Of course he'd pay the bill if he asked her out. What kind of guy wouldn't, after all? It was a matter of course!_

 _And so he'd taken her out._

 _He'd picked her up from home, wearing his best clothes, showing all his courtesy in greeting her parents – and her, too – bringing her flowers, and then he'd visited the best restaurant with her._

 _·_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _·_

 _Was that bloody book going on like that forever? They didn't even have names so far!_

 _Browsing forwards to the last pages, because he really had no inclination of reading the entire book, he scanned the last few sentences._

 _·_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _·_

 _She'd been the only thing he'd ever had, the only thing he'd ever loved, the only thing that had been important to him, ever – and now she was gone, had died, just like that. They had just married, just a few days ago, and already she was gone._

 _"She'll always be with you." People said. "She'll always be in your heart, and you'll never really lose her." People said._

 _"She'll always be with you." People said._

 _"But nothing more than a memory." He answered._

 _·_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _·_

 **End flashback**

He'd thrown the book into a corner of the room, angry with his decision, because really, he could have borrowed a bible for all he knew and it wouldn't have been as close as home as this damn, bloody book had been, and it had taken him hours until he'd fallen asleep after that.

He would take a long, nice shower, he would get ready for the day, and then he would leave this damn, bloody town. It was a new day, and even though it was still snowing, the sheriff would surely have opened the roads. He would go home and he would look after Mr. Constantin. The boy would be uncomfortable enough without his presence, he knew that.

And he'd then go to bed early, tonight, after having ready an article or two in 'chemistry monthly' to get his mind off things.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 20, 1939, Wednesday – Barren Ground, Canada**

 **Viewpoint of Jean McIory**

Leaning forwards in his truck Jean fished for a cigarette from the package he had laying on the dashboard, and lighting the – nails to his coffin as Dunstan always called them – he thought about the day before.

He'd left Pine Point, had crossed the Great Slave Lake, and with being fifteen minutes late he'd reached Yellowknife around noon. He'd taken the post sack that was meant for them, had partaken in a few jests and jokes, and then he'd made good time until he'd reached Rocknest Lake and the middle store at a somewhat acceptable time.

He'd had a nice evening with Big Bear and Worry, ignoring Frank's idiot comments – the man came from Flat Hollow, after all – and then he'd had one of Ma's best steaks and beans with onions and scrambled eggs.

Of course Ma wasn't really his mother, nor was she the mother of any other trucker out there, but that didn't matter, for them she was just – Ma.

Slowly he left the bright lights of the storage behind, steered the truck deeper into the darkness of the Barren Grounds, deeper into the wilderness of North Canada, over the ice and up, up to the north, while with a sigh he wondered why time went by so slowly today. Half past seven and he felt as if he were on the road for hours already while he would have to cover many more hours until he reached Calville, and therefore Flat Hollow where he could sleep for the night – nothing he was looking forwards to, really.

But well, none of them was overly fond of Flat Hollow – because the men from Flat Hollow were like the place itself, and the place was like the name already pointed out – flat and hollow.

Not to mention that they were cunning and malicious, always making sure to cause trouble for others. He neither partook in any socialising activities up there, nor did he partake in meals together with them. He unloaded his trailer, ate a small lunch in his truck before he laid down to sleep in his cabin for a few hours before he'd start Thursday morning with new load that was meant for Pine Point, preferably without a word of departure, and once more he'd go about six hundred miles through the wilderness and the icy lands of the Northwest Territories and of the Barren Grounds until he finally would be back home on Friday evening at eight – more or less … and if all went well that was – and given that he would be able to keep up his average speed all the times, what barely was possible.

There was only one who managed _that_ , only one who had never come late and only one who held several records the drivers playfully wrote at a board – and this one was Dunstan, Jean realized with a frown. That damn bastard definitely was one of the fastest drivers, but he definitely was one of the most reliable ones, too – not to mention his nerves that sometimes seemed to be made of steel cables, and for that he was envied by most of the other drivers.

And yet – Dunstan really wasn't a spring chicken anymore. Softly he laughed. That man was rather well along in years, nearly twice his age.

A few weeks ago, just upon starting on the route, Dunstan got stuck with the truck on his way, when he had been on his way back from Flat Hollow to Rocknest Lake. He had informed the Transfer Station per radio and then he just had walked on through the wilderness of ice and snow, had walked on just like that.

Well, of course he couldn't have done anything else. If you got stuck out there on this route they were driving then it could mean death and the only thing that would save you were to keep your head and to move to keep yourself warm. And just that he had done.

Big Bear and Worry had started immediately of course, but nevertheless they hadn't really thought they would find him in time, not with nearly 300 miles he'd been away from the Station and they had cursed Dunstan to hell and back. 300 miles, even with the quicker and smaller rescue vessels meant six to eight hours, if nothing happened on their way. And eight hours out there with nothing than just a few warm clothes – it wasn't a really calming thought. But well, they had reached him in time, and what had that bastard done? He had laughed, had asked them what had kept them.

Shaking his head he huffed, remembering the week before when Dunstan had left for the tour.

 **Flashback**

 _The scent of freshly brewed coffee was the first thing Jean noticed when he left his bedroom and with bleary, half lidded eyes he sniffed, hoping he would get awake with just the scent while he felt his way through the dark corridor. Coffee! Just what he needed right now. A cup of coffee – and a cigarette._

 _Just like Dunstan had avoided turning on the light, he avoided that same thing as well. It was just four in the morning and he didn't want to wake the boy, Terry, his nephew who was visiting for Christmas holidays. One gleam of light and the brat were awake – and it would be impossible to get him back to sleep. And so he felt his way through the dark corridor …_

 _"Wait a moment, coffee?" He murmured into the dark. "Dunstan has already made coffee? When? It's just four! And why didn't I hear the alarm?"_

… _and ran into the edge of the side board._

' _Of course, why ever not.' He thought while he pressed his palm against his aching hip and he tried to curse as quietly as possible._

 _Why did such things always happen to him only and never to Dunstan? How did this damn bastard manage to move in the dark as sure as if he would move in the light?_

 _Still cursing quietly he slipped into the kitchen and left the door ajar while he squinted his eyes in the bright light. The scent of the coffee was stronger in here and together with the soft and familiar sound of the coffee maker he slowly got awake. Slowly!_

 _Yawning he ran his hand through his tousled hair, scuffled towards the kitchen table and sat down into one of the chairs. He placed his arms onto the table, laid his head atop his arms and closed his eyes._

 _One minute! Just one single minute! Damn, he was tired. These damn dreams, as if he couldn't do without them. And if they were not these dreams, then they were those – or others, and just as unpleasant as the ones he'd had last night._

 _What had it been tonight anyway? Ah, yes – he's been running after Dunstan's truck yet again, had watched how it had sunken into a large hole in the icy surface. Although Dunstan didn't have an own truck, even. They shared the truck and only the trailer was supplied by the firm._

 _For a moment Jean ran his hand over his face before he placed his head back onto his arms while he, on one hand tried to get awake completely, and on the other hand tried to keep the blinding light in the kitchen from burning away his eyes – and all the while he didn't notice Dunstan entering the kitchen door and watching him silently._

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 _Dunstan stood in the door, leaning with his shoulder against the door frame, his arms crossed in front of his chest and amusedly he watched the slender form of Jean who seemed to sleep at the kitchen table. His shoulders rose and lowered regularly with each breath he took while dark and long strands of hair fell over his face and his arms. But that didn't matter. He didn't have to see Jean's face to know that he was not shaved yet, nor washed, and that the brown eyes still were bleary, halfway lingering in the world of dreams, and – not for the first time – he wondered how he had become so close to that young man he considered as something like his son. Never before had he become as close to someone as he had to Jean, aside from Joshua maybe, and – again not for the first time – he was amazed at the similarity between Joshua and Jean, while he himself seemed to be the opposite to both young men._

 _He was taller than Jean, over-towering the younger man for at least a head and even though he, too, was slender he wasn't as skinny as was Jean. But aside from that? He, too, had long and black hair, only that it wasn't as tousled as was Jean's but fixed in a tie behind his neck. Alright, were Jean had brown eyes there had he, Dunstan, black eyes. But both of them preferred black clothes, black Jeans and black T-shirts. Jean sometimes with silly slogans printed over his chest, like 'Darker than my shirt is only my soul' or 'I would intellectually duel with you, but I see you are under-armed' or 'If you can read this then you should be very friendly, you are within my operating distance'. Silly, really._

 _While they however were similar in their looks, they were very much different concerning their entire character._

 _Where he, Dunstan, was calm and quiet, rather reserved and stiff, there Jean was sometimes energetic and hectic. Where he, Dunstan, rather tended to be silent, to listen and to control himself, there could Jean rip through the rooms like a raving lunatic, and pull everything and everyone with him in his state. And where he, Dunstan, always kept his nerves to make his decisions rationally, well, Jean rather acted impulsively and sometimes rather irrational, got scared and lost his head._

 _The soft sound of the kitchen cabinet being closed woke Jean and he lifted his head to watch with tired eyes how Dunstan took two cups from the board and placed them at the table._

 _"Slept well?" The older man asked while he watched him amusedly._

 _Jean watched him for a moment dumbfounded while he wondered how Dunstan could be so – awake and able to display any kind of amusement in these early morning hours. Or shouldn't he rather say in the middle of the night? It was unnatural and his only explanation to that was that it surely had to be some kind of perversion while he tiredly nodded and gave away a "hmm m" that was meant to be a yes. He knew that Dunstan was a pervert! No one could be as sarcastic as was Dunstan, and no one could be as alert all the times as was Dunstan, and no one could be amused in the early morning hours – except for Dunstan!_

 _Dunstan, on the other hand, smirked while shaking his head._

 _How could one human being be so dozy and cranky in the morning as was Jean? And people said he was ill-tempered! Honestly! And why hadn't he just stayed in bed, sleeping peacefully? He knew very well that Jean hadn't slept well, that he had slept poorly and with bad dreams. He knew him well enough to know that. He'd often told him to stay in bed, to go on sleeping, knowing that the younger man didn't get enough sleep during the night in the first place and he actually was glad whenever Jean Bloody McIory got a few hours of peaceful sleep. He was able to care for himself, he was a forty-three old man after all, not a small child and he didn't need a twenty-three year old boy to take care of him._

 _Shaking his head at the man with the tousled hair, he poured two cups of the black and strong liquid. Well, the boy's hair always seemed to be tousled and a few strands hung constantly over his forehead and into his kind eyes – well, right now they weren't really kind, because if the stare of his brown eyes he threw towards the coffee maker every now and then could have killed – the coffee surely wouldn't be edible anymore._

 _On the other hand, he knew very well why Jean had left his bed. He himself couldn't bring himself to stay in bed when the younger man had to leave the house every other Tuesday morning and a deep sense of gratitude took hold in his chest while he sat down at the table as well. He was glad to have a friend like this, like Jean. Without this chaotically young man that could be a right out crank sometimes his life would be very boring. Yet – a multiple times calmer and easier, he had to admit, and again he couldn't keep from shaking his head._

 _"Hm?" Jean made, looking at him questioningly when he noticed Dunstan's headshaking,_

 _"Nothing." The other man answered. "I was just thinking."_

 _"You're capable of that?" Jean asked in a murmur while he folded his hands around the hot mug of coffee Dunstan had placed in front of him, his eyes already closed again._

 _He was cold!_

 _And he was tired!_

 _And he was in a bad mood!_

 _And – it was an inhuman time!_

 _"Insolent brat!" Dunstan chuckled lightly while he took a sip of his coffee. He knew very well that Jean had not meant any harm. He just wasn't completely awake yet and therefore he was – just in a bad temper, and if he was in a bad temper, then he could display a very sarcastic sense of humour. But he loved this sarcastic sense of humour, it made him smile. It was the kind of humour he himself preferred after all._

 _"Good morning!" He therefore smirked. "Drink your coffee!"_

 _"I'm doing." Jean growled sleepily while he took the packet of cigarettes from the other side of the table, fished one of the cigarettes and the matches out and lightened the coffin nail. It took him two attempts, but then he took his first and greedy drag this morning, the one of which a lot more would follow and he inhaled it deeply._

 _Dunstan watched him without the slightest bit of understanding. He never had understood how one could make himself depending on a few butts like this. But well it were Jean's lungs, not his. And it was Jean's money, not his._

 _He watched how the young man grimaced with the first drag he took and he knew that he didn't really enjoy the taste of the cigarettes, particularly not in the mornings. It just was a bad addiction, a bad habit of which Jean claimed it only was indulgence, he'd be able to stop anytime._

 _"Did you pack the second battery?" He heard Jean asking and he lifted his eyebrow at the young man. Of course he had, why did Jean still ask? Each time he got the same answers to the same questions._

 _"I have." He answered with an amused look in his dark eyes, already knowing the next question._

 _"And it is fully charged?" Jean immediately asked, even though he knew the answer to this question just as well. Because – one, he got the same answer each time and second, Dunstan was ways too attentive than that he would forget something like charging the battery. He watched Dunstan inclining his head._

 _"It is." He heard Dunstan answering while he knew exactly what the older man's answer to his next question would be. And nevertheless he asked._

 _"Did you pack your sunglasses?"_

 _"I did." Dunstan confirmed patiently and Jean nodded in satisfaction._

 _"And your wallet?" He asked._

 _"Yes, I have." Dunstan's normally so calm voice slowly got impatient, even if not really angry, and he nearly smirked with amusement. Jean knew well that worry wouldn't have been necessary with a person like Dunstan. Dunstan probably was the most reliable, accurate, organized, rational, strict, steadfast, controlled and composed person – aside from other things – that existed on this earth. In fact, it was rather the other way round and he needed Dunstan so he wouldn't forget everything – his head included._

 _"And your gloves?" He couldn't help asking. "Cap? Scarf?"_

 _"Damn, McIory! You're a pain in the ass!"_

 _"Do you have?"_

 _"I do."_

 _"Don't forget your jacket!"_

 _"Are you implying that I am – dense, somehow?" Dunstan by now scowled at him in irritation. "It is rather cold out there, if you have not noticed yet."_

 _"I have, I am cold." Jean whined. "You packed your sleeping bag?"_

 _"Stop it, Jean." Dunstan growled with a sigh. "Why do you have to cause a drama out of this each time? I am not gone four weeks but four days only!"_

 _"Yes, four days alone in a desert of ice and snow that covers lake over lake!" Damn, why did Dunstan take this all so lightly? Well, ok, now he had wronged him. He didn't take this lightly, but he pretended that it would be absolutely harmless and not dangerous, and that was what agitated him so much._

 _And why had the other felt the need to driving that route, too, during the winter months, instead of remaining at Norman's garage where he would have been safe? Sure, during four months of driving that route they made more money than for the rest of the year working as a mechanic or with the rescue service – but that didn't mean that it had been necessary._

 _He sighed in frustration while he watched Dunstan getting up from the table with an "I have to go" while he took the last sip of his coffee and then slipped into his jacket._

 _Jean curtly nodded and got off the table as well, his cup still in his hands and he took another cigarette from the packet. Hastily he lightened it before he followed Dunstan out of the kitchen, watching the older man slipping into his gloves and looping the scarf loosely around his neck._

 _"Jacket, McIory." Dunstan growled into Jean's direction who looked over at him for a moment, sheepishly. Of course he had been about to follow Dunstan out of the house without a jacket and with the 42°- that the thermometer showed this morning, it wouldn't have been a really wise decision, even if it were only a few minutes. But there it was again, the fact that Dunstan was the one who thought of such things while he, Jean, forgot them – or didn't take them so seriously._

 _Oh, damn, was that cold! Ice cold! And for a moment he held his breath. Back inside! Back into the warm house! That was all he wanted. But he kept standing on the front veranda nevertheless, trembling and shivering, glad that Dunstan had reminded him at his jacket, and he watched his friend unlocking the door of the truck, climbing into the cabin agile as if he were twenty-three and not forty-three._

 _"Be careful." He called ill-tempered but not really angry. "I don't want to follow you a few hundred miles across the ice to pull you out of somewhere."_

 _"I am always careful. And if my memory serves me right, McIory, then it has been me who had to get you out of trouble last time. I just say_ _… sunglasses … and snow blindness …." Dunstan chuckled back, emphasizing the last words while he threw his bag onto the passenger seat and settled behind the steering wheel._

 _Then he pulled the door close, gave a last curt nod into Jean's direction while he started the engine and then he slowly drove along the driveway, turned right at the end of the way, onto the main road that led to New Heaven's Valley. Well, again he was on his way to the South Store where he would get the trailer, would load it and then start into the direction of north._

 _The moment the truck was out of sight Jean turned and hastily went into the warmth of the house. Damn, it was cold out there. He thought while he scurried back into the kitchen. And his remaining coffee was just as cold meanwhile, it was a miracle that it wasn't frozen to ice._

 _He poured the bit of coffee down the drain, nearly disappointed that the black something didn't fall as a clot of ice into the sink but run down fluidly, but then he shook his head about himself and poured fresh, hot coffee into his cup._

 _Five o'clock._

 _Still an inhuman time, but it wasn't worth going back to bed for an hour, he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep anyway. Just one more cup of coffee, a cigarette, and then he would go to the bathroom, preparing for the day._

 **End flashback**

Yes, that was Dunstan, always alert, always in control of any situation, and surely never losing his head. If only he could say the same about himself – but he couldn't and with a huff he shook his head and concentrated back on the road ahead of him. Just a few miles more and he'd arrive at Coppermine.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 20** **th** **, 1939, Wednesday – New Heaven's Valley**

 **Viewpoint of Walter Sherman**

Waking slowly, Walter ran his hand over his eyes, trying to get the headache off his forehead – and the sleep off his eyes. He didn't really know how late it was, but he had the feeling that he'd missed breakfast, because there was daylight falling through the heavy curtains and into his room, and since it was winter, it was dark in the early morning hours, and so it had to be past eight or nine, most likely already ten – and so he'd not only missed breakfast but school, too.

Not that he was hungry, he barely was partaking in breakfast other than drinking a cup of tea or hot milk, but today he was less hungry than he'd normally be. He felt awful, and for a moment he considered going back to sleep. Leaning with his back against the wall and considering his actions, he yawned – just to give away a few coughs, his throat feeling sore and scratchy – and he just felt awful.

Well, it wasn't the first time that he got a cold, and so he knew what was to come – and that he'd survive it.

It would be a few days of feeling awful, a few days of having a stuffed up nose that was runny every now and then, a few days of coughing, but well, after that he'd be alright. It would be like always, so what? There was no reason to make a fuss.

Well, missing breakfast was one thing, but school was a different matter – not that he'd be unhappy it if he missed school for a day or two, generally, but Heaven's High was alright, and he liked this school. The teachers, too, were alright, except for Mr. Mason, Mr. Meredith Mason – his math teacher, he didn't really get along with the man. Not that he'd be like Professor Hrothgar, snide and biting, always happy to hurt the students, and sometimes badly so, but he just didn't get along with the man. But seeing that no one was getting along with him, not even the parents – and Jethro was always complaining about him – he guessed that it wasn't too bad that he didn't get along with him.

Yawning again, and coughing again, he got off the bed and then went down the stairs and into the kitchen, wondering why Jethro hadn't woken him.

"Good morning." The man said, scowling, looking up from the newspaper he was reading. "Go and get socks on your feet."

"Huh?" He made, confused for a moment, because he didn't really understand why he'd have to wear socks, he never did.

"Maybe there hasn't been anyone around to take care of you when you're ill, but I expect you to wear socks if you are." Jethro then explained. "And wouldn't I know that it is a fruitless demand, I'd tell you to wear slippers, too."

"Uhhh." He made, going back to his room to get socks, not really understanding what had just happened.

He didn't even know where his slippers were.

He was going bare feet whenever possible. He didn't like shoes, he felt like being locked in in a small room without a window if he was to wear shoes and so far he'd taken his shoes with him, just so that the teachers wouldn't accuse Jethro of refusing him shoes, but he wouldn't wear them. He had them hanging from his backpack.

Taking a pair of socks he went back downstairs, still wondering since when Jethro would care about him wearing socks or not, he never did. It had been an issue during the first few days when he'd come to live with the man, but then Jethro had shrugged his shoulders if he went out bare feet.

When fall had become winter Jethro had again started asking him a few times if he wouldn't be wearing shoes, but he'd always told him that no, he didn't have cold feet and he'd never worn shoes just because it's been winter.

Professor Hrothgar had once thrown him out of his classroom because of it, and as Frogman had made it clear that he had to visit chemistry classes, he'd had no other choice than wearing shoes for ninety minutes twice a week, because Professor Hrothgar had always cast an extra glance at his feet when he'd entered the chemistry classroom – and considering one or another experiment going wrong, then he couldn't help admitting that most likely the Professor had been correct.

Well, for the past few days he'd been wearing shoes, just because of the snow storm and because Jethro had made him to, but the moment the snowstorm would have ceased, he'd go bare feet again.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Jethro Chandler**

Still scowling at the newspaper, because the boy wasn't here to scowl at, he shook his head.

He had accepted that Walter was going bare feet, even in winter, but he wouldn't allow it when he was ill, and he wouldn't allow it if there was a snowstorm outside, with temperatures dropping noticeably. He had to admit that the boy was remarkably resilient, not easily getting ill even though he was being outside without shoes and with a t-shirt beneath his jacket only, and maybe he was as resilient as he was because of that, but enough was enough and during a snowstorm one didn't leave the house without a jacket – nor without shoes.

Taking the water from the stove he brewed another round of tea and then broke some eggs into a pan. The boy hadn't had dinner last night, he'd probably be hungry enough by now so that he would eat some scrambled eggs even though he was ill.

"Morning." The boy said when coming down the stairs – with a pair of socks in his hand – his voice being a scratchy whisper. "Why didn't you wake me for school?"

"Because you're ill." He said, taking the thermometer from the side board. Had there be no one who'd taken care of the boy when he'd been ill? "Leave the tea standing for a few minutes. Open up." He then ordered, pushing the thermometer into the boy's mouth the moment he'd obeyed – and no, there hadn't been anyone around or the child wouldn't be living with him right now.

"Whadh …" Walter tried to ask around the thermometer.

"Keep your mouth shut for at least those three minutes the thermometer is in." He huffed. "Had you never had someone taking your temperature? I expect you to drink that tea and to eat a bit of the scrambled eggs, and after that you're going back to bed – or you get your blanket and lay on the sofa in the parlor. I've taken the day off."

"Shusht b'caush I'm …" Came the mumbled question.

"Just because you're ill, yes." He growled, glaring at the boy. "It is the most normal thing for a parent to stay at home if their child is ill and for the time being you are my child – and knowing you, you'd neither drink your tea, nor would you regard any food and surely you'd not wear socks or a warm pajama while you're at home alone."

"'M noth thadh badh." The boy mumbled around the thermometer and he sighed.

"I've told you to keep your mouth shut while taking the temperature." He said.

"I 'af idh shudh." The boy made, looking at him unbelievingly, and he shook his head.

"Just give it here." He said after three minutes were over, taking the glass thermometer and he sighed when reading it – he'd known that it was a fewer. "One hundred and two." He said. "Drink that tea while it's hot."

For a moment he wondered why the boy looked at him with a frown, then at the tea, but seeing that he was taking the cup and starting to drink the tea, slowly, he just went to the stove and put the scrambled eggs on a plate.

"'M not hungry." The boy said, listlessly, when he put the plate and a fork before him, warming his hands on the cup, and he accepted it. It wouldn't do any good if he forced the boy to eat when he was ill, he'd allow it for the moment and they'd see what the day would bring. He'd make sure that the boy rested and that he'd drink enough, and hopefully the entire thing would be over by tomorrow – if no, he'd just call doc Henson … or Wohehiv.

Alright – he better didn't ask Wohehiv, or he wouldn't see the end of it, ever … he'd call doc Henson …

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between roses and peppermint …**

 _The second chapter: a truck is rolling over ice …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	5. the black truck

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading …

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Added author's notes:**

This first chapter, the foreword, might give away the impression that the story might be a biography – _it is not_. I have only written it so that you might know, not all of what happens in a book is fiction. There are things which are very much reality for some people and even though the story in the book might be playing at a different place and to a different time, for different persons – sometimes part of it might be real for some people anyway, never mind if it is the story of one particular person, if it is the story of a nation, or if it is the story of how God can work miracles in people.

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me – I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smudge, bring brown rings caused by your coffee cup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _"Morning." The boy said when coming down the stairs – with a pair of socks in his hand – his voice being a scratchy whisper. "Why didn't you wake me for school?"_

 _"Because you're ill." He said, taking the thermometer from the side board. Had there be no one who'd taken care of the boy when he'd been ill? "Leave the tea standing for a few minutes. Open up." He then ordered, pushing the thermometer into the boy's mouth the moment he'd obeyed._

 _"Whadh …" Walter tried to aske around the thermometer._

 _"Keep your mouth shut for at least those three minutes the thermometer is in." He huffed. "Had you never had someone taking your temperature? I expect you to drink that tea and to eat a bit of the scrambled eggs, and after that you're going back to bed – or you get your blanket and lay on the sofa in the parlor. I've taken the day off."_

 _"Shusht b'caush I'm …" Came the mumbled question._

 _"Just because you're ill, yes." He growled, glaring at the boy. "It is the most normal thing for a parent to stay at home if their child is ill and for the time being you are my child – and knowing you, you'd neither drink your tea, nor would you regard any food and surely you'd not wear socks or a warm pajama while you're at home alone."_

 _"'M noth thadh badh." The boy mumbled around the thermometer and he sighed._

 _"I've told you to keep your mouth shut while taking the temperature." He said._

 _"I 'af idh shudh." The boy made, looking at him unbelievingly, and he shook his head._

 _"Just give it here." He said after three minutes were over, taking the glass thermometer and he sighed when reading it – he'd known that it was a fewer. "One hundred and two." He said. "Drink that tea while it's hot."_

 _For a moment he wondered why the boy looked at him with a frown, then at the tea, but seeing that he was taking the cup and starting to drink the tea, slowly, he just went to the stove and put the scrambled eggs on a plate._

 _"'M not hungry." The boy said, listlessly, when he put the plate and a fork before him, warming his hands on the cup, and he accepted it. It wouldn't do any good if he forced the boy to eat when he was ill, he'd allow it for the moment and they'd see what the day would bring. He'd make sure that the boy rested and that he'd drink enough, and hopefully the entire thing would be over by tomorrow – if no, he'd just call doc Henson … or Wohehiv._

 _Alright – he better didn't ask Wohehiv, or he wouldn't see the end of it, ever … he'd call doc Henson …_

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter five – the black truck**

 **Or – just a slight fever**

 **December 20, 1939, Wednesday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Angus McFlaherty**

"Please." Collin whispered, leaning close. "I'll get detention."

"Ok." He sighed, giving in and opening his pencil case. He chose a standard pencil graded as HB, one of those pencils he didn't need often. He preferred pencils between B's, BB's and BBB's, and he'd never give one of these out of his hands, never ever!

Well, Collin never had his pencils during art lessons, always forgetting them because he didn't care about arts.

He, Angus, was fairly good when it came to drawing pictures, because for him it was a way to express himself in a way that was different from any other ways he'd ever tried before, even managing shadows and light, but Collin didn't care and he just scratched a few lines here and there, and for that he wouldn't need any B's.

Today they were to draw their names in a pattern of their choice and he'd chosen clouds. Not those dark clouds out there, which brought the snowstorm that was still raging, but bright clouds in surrounding darkness.

"Thanks, really." Collin said, starting to write his name on the paper and then looking at it, not really knowing what to do with it.

He didn't bother giving an answer but started with the first letter of his name.

Half of the children had been brought by their parents today so that they wouldn't have to walk to school during a snowstorm, and the other half of the children in his class were missing, most likely due to the snowstorm, too. Well – he had to admit that it was a really great snowstorm … in the truest sense of the word.

He liked it.

He loved it.

Everything was silent out there in the snowstorm, silent, slow and calm, except of the storm itself, of course, the storm roaring powerful and you had to raise your voice to overcome it. But you didn't hear the snowflakes, you didn't hear the voices of the people nearby, you didn't hear the animals – there was nothing except for the softly, slowly and silently falling flakes which were like a silencing curtain dividing the world, like a silencing blanket covering the world. It was an entirely different world in which everything seemed to follow different rules, and suddenly the world seemed to run the way _he_ was running. Slowly, silently, calmly, and suddenly he knew why he loved Christmas so very much, even though Jesus hadn't really been born on Christmas eve – no, no … it rather was, because Christmas was so very much like God. Calm, quiet, and unhurried.

It must have been like that when God had made the world. There hadn't been hundreds of cars filling the streets, one trying to be faster and louder than the other, and there hadn't been thousands of people hurrying along the pavement, screaming this or that, pushing each other in their haste and caring for themselves only.

No – there had been just Adam and Eve together with God in the garden, slowly walking, calmly talking and none of them had pushed the other out of their ways.

Until Eve had picked the fruit, and until Adam had eaten it.

Shaking his head at the two, at Adam and Eve, he focused his eyes back on his drawing and with some satisfaction he realized that he had already drawn all the letter-clouds on the paper, that there were even some snowflakes between the clouds, and he changed to a different pencil that would be more suitable for doing the shadows.

He would have loved it, walking through the garden together with God and talking to him, telling him what Eve and him had done, asking him if he couldn't change the weather so that it wouldn't rain ever again – because he didn't like that much – but snowing instead.

Rain was just loud and hectic, the raindrops falling to the ground, one faster than the other as if they had a competition running, just like people, and they were just loud, and wet and ugly, the splashing sound of the drops on the ground grating on his nerves, always, making him confused and nervous.

If it were just a little warmer when it was snowing, and for a moment he tried to imagine what snow would be like in summer, when the sun was shining – and with a sigh he shook his head. Of course it wouldn't work because the flakes would melt in the warm sun. He would have to deal with rain for some years longer.

Of course he could understand how Adam and Eve had been deceived by Satan, and of course he understood that Satan was very powerful – but God was even more powerful than Satan was, and while it was a humanly reaction, listening to Satan's voice and starting to wonder, he couldn't understand that they hadn't simply obeyed God's word.

Maybe Satan had whispered into their ears, and maybe they had been listening, maybe they had started to wonder about God's words, but that didn't change the little fact that _if_ they had just obeyed his word, like they should have done, then everything would have gone different.

You could listen to different things, sure, the bible itself said: _'prove all things, but hold fast that which is good,'_ but you didn't have to know all the reasoning of God. You had to obey his word, even though you didn't understand because his plan was so much bigger than they could fathom, and that was the only mistake Adam and Eve had made in his opinion. Instead of trusting in God's plan, and instead of obeying God's word, they had listened to Satan.

A soft cracking sound made him looking over at Collin, and for a moment his heart stopped beating while he couldn't help calling out a "you killed it!" – and suddenly the classroom was silent, everyone looking at him, some starting to snicker and to whisper, and he knew that they were not laughing because of Collin killing his pencil, but because his accusation – that was a nonsense accusation, of course, he knew that, but he couldn't help, because … well, just because!

And now imagine it had been one of his BB's, or one of his BBB's!

He'd gotten the H's, the HB's and the B's from his parents, of course, seeing that he'd need them for school anyway, and not only one of them but a pair each because they knew how much he liked drawing. But the BB's and the BBB's, he'd saved all his pocket money for weeks, and he'd bought them one by one.

"Uhm … sorry." Collin made, looking at him helplessly, and ignoring the laughter from the other children he took his sharpener and wordlessly placed it on Collin's paper.

He was one of the few children who had a sharpener in the first place. The girls simply took the sharpener from their teacher to sharpen their pencils, and the boys simply sharpened their pencils with their pocket knives – if they even did, that was.

Maybe he'd buy a new pencil so that Collin could keep this one.

Or maybe he'd show Collin how to handle the pencil so that he wouldn't always break their mines.

Maybe he'd show Collin how to properly draw so that he'd get some interest in the matter.

Or he'd simply ask God on Wednesdays to remind Collin of his pencils.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 20, 1939, Wednesday – Barren Ground, Canada**

 **Viewpoint of Jean McIory**

Leaving the barrack in Coppermine and climbing into the truck he couldn't shake the feeling that he had forgotten something.

He'd made good way during the early morning hours and if nothing happened on his way, he'd reach Flat Hollow early tonight. He would make a small stop at Bernard Harbour before steering his truck over the ice of the Dolphin and Union Strait to reach Victoria Island and Peninsula, hoping that the ice road was intact, and then it was only three or four hours until he reached Colville and therefore Flat Hollow.

Absentmindedly he started rummaging through his jacket.

His keys, the wallet, cigarettes, matches, a second pair of gloves – he could find all of that in the pockets of his jacket, and he started looking through his backpack. In there was his thermos flask with coffee and his lunch box. His gloves, the cap and the scarf he had been wearing, and he'd carelessly thrown them together with his jacket onto the passenger's seat when he'd entered his truck, and starting to doubt his mind he shook his head.

But he wasn't at ease. He just had a bad feeling and unhappily he settled behind the steering wheel, plugged the key into the ignition and started the engine. But then, just before he locked the gear … _damn_ , he knew what he had forgotten.

His guitar!

 _His guitar_

How could he have forgotten that damn thing! This damn thing was _important_!

Without his damn guitar he couldn't go on driving!

It was something Dunstan and the other truckers always made fun of, but it just was that way.

Sighing with relief he left the truck once more. It wasn't particularly pleasant, the feeling that you had forgotten something, because mostly you really _had_ forgotten something and mostly it was something really important, something that could safe your neck out there if you got stuck.

 _Just like his Guitar!_

And so of course Jean was relieved to know _what_ it was he had forgotten and with a feeling of satisfaction he once more stepped into the small building.

Big Bear and Worry looked up at him, startled.

"What's wrong? The truck's striking? D'you need compression?" Worry immediately asked while Big Bear was already out of his chair, but Jean waved them off and stepped to the counter behind which Ma watched him warily.

"Just forgot my guitar." He said with a smirk, but the chubby woman behind the counter stood there with her hands on her hips and watched him reproachfully for a moment before she shook her head and turned around, taking the instrument and reached it over at him.

" _You_ … would forget your head, Little One, if it were not attached to your shoulders!" She then reprimanded.

Little One.

This nickname he had gotten from them the first day he had arrived at the Middle Store in Coppermine, and smiling he thought back, remembering how they had laughed at him when he had climbed down from the cabin and out of the truck.

But well, he had been just as startled, back then, when he had seen those guys that had left the barrack laughing, some of them built like a brick shit house. All of them had most likely twice as much of weight than he'd had and he had gulped for a moment, had forced himself to ignore their teasing.

He'd rather grimaced for a moment, annoyed, and had then started to unload his trailer.

 _'Well, that's going to be fun.'_ He had thought.

 **Flashback**

 **November 1932**

 _It was Monday evening. Finally it was Monday evening and the tables in the small common room were occupied with men of all ages, most of them with a cup of coffee in front of them, some with a bottle of beer, comfortably smoking a cigarette, while excited voices filled the small barrack._

 _They all waited for only one thing._

 _For the arrival of the new one._

 _Ma had known it first, like always. She always learned about things first and she of course always was the first one who gave the news to the others – and therefore the entire camp now knew._

 _Today a newbie would arrive._

 _And all of them now waited for just that, curiously, for the arrival of the new one._

 _They were sitting together comfortably, just like always actually, chatting, talking, joking. But where some of them would go to bed early, today they were all wide awake, not dreaming of a bed, and today their eyes wandered out of the window every now and then, and whenever that happened, the conversation stopped until the one who had looked outside turned back, looking at the others with a headshaking._

 _Nothing._

 _Nothing yet._

 _And so the conversations went on, the jokes went on._

 _When the next one looked out of the window again the present men in the small but comfortable barrack went silent, watched the giant expectantly, some of them strained even._

 _"Can you see something, Big Bear?" One of them asked, but the man called Big Bear turned back to them with a disappointed face, shaking his head. He turned his attention back towards the conversations around him, just throwing one short, last glance out of the window._

 _And then, finally, he could see them._

 _Headlights._

 _Headlights that pierced the darkness out there and his head jerked back to the window while his muscles tensed with anticipation._

 _The new one was here._

 _It was a few minutes before nine, so he was damn good in time for being a newbie, just one hour late, not bad._

 _"He's coming!" He called out with his booming voice. "He's here!"_

 _Immediately chaos broke loose in the small room, everyone got off their seats, hasting over to Big Bear and trying to get a good spot by the window._

 _"Stop that, damn!" Big Bear roared. "I know that you're curious, there wasn't a newbie here since long, but in some kind of order please! The smaller ones to the front and the taller ones watch from behind! Except for me, I'm staying right here!"_

 _"And why are you staying at the front? You're the biggest here!" One was calling out, still trying to fight his way through the others and to the front, close to the window._

 _"Because I'm the strongest!" Big Bear answered laughing. "And because this here is my camp! Do you have a problem with that, Frank? If so, then try getting me away from here! And now shut your gobs! I want to see this here!"_

 _"Didn't know you're looking with your gob!" Another one was laughing, but Big Bear didn't take the bait and tried his best to see something out there in the dark._

 _Meanwhile the headlights had nearly reached the Barrack and they could see how the truck slowed down bit by bit. But that was all they could see. Slowly the truck stopped, the engine died down and the headlights went off, allowed the lantern outside of the barrack to illuminate the truck._

 _The truck was painted black as coal, plain, only with a few spots of chrome, but what caught their eyes at the most was the shape of the truck. It was hulky, massive and strong – and yet beautiful, nearly gracefully, absolutely unusual and it elicited some 'ahhs' and 'ohhs' of envy from the gawkers._

 _And then, finally, the driver's door opened, but only a soft shimmer was visible, no real light and no shape of the person within the cabin._

 _Damn! What was the guy doing in there? What took him so long? Did he intend to spend the night in the truck? That took ages!_

 _But then finally a pair of legs that climbed down the cabin appeared, the door was thrown shut and …_

 _Big Bear was the first one who burst out laughing. The person that was illuminated by the lantern was …_

 _Others joined into his laugher._

 _"But look! That's a child still! He hasn't even a beard!" Big Bear called out, his booming voice appalled._

 _"Look at that! How tiny he is!" Frank laughed. "He's only a kid's portion!"_

 _"Blimey, does he even reach the pedals?" A third one asked with large eyes._

 _"Shut up!" Big Bear shouted. "We'll go out there and greet him civilly. And no idiotic, snide remarks, he's new."_

 _With those words he pushed himself off the window and hurried towards the door, opened it and stepped out into the cold, followed by the others. And then there they stood, looking the black clothed stranger that had stopped beside his truck when they had left the barrack over from head to toe and for some seconds silence ruled, nearly uncomfortable silence, but then Frank burst out laughing again, burst into laughter in which others joined inevitably._

 _"Blimey, are they in Pine Point so poor that they have to admit children behind the steering wheel meanwhile?" He called out, holding his stomach with laugher. "They're really pitiable in that case."_

 _"He's really minuscule!"_

 _"One soft breeze and he's blown away!"_

 _"You think he's still wearing diapers? I'll bring a pacifier next week!"_

 _"You need a microscope to find him, really! You think he's grown hair already?"_

 _"Shut up, maybe he isn't so small. Maybe just the truck is so large!"_

" _You all shut up!" Big bear thundered with his booming voice angrily. "Are you greeting a new one like this? Where are your manners?"_

 _"Manners? What's that? Can you eat them?" Frank asked, still shaking with laugher_

 _"No, you bugger! They're for drinking!"_

 _"YOU should eat them with a tablespoon and even then it wouldn't help, idiot!" Big Bear barked._

 _"Whoa, drinking? I always thought you could smoke them!"_

 _"Shut up!" Big Bear roared again while he watched the young new driver closely. Damn, those idiots were on the ball today. If only the little one wasn't irritated easily. But he didn't seem to. He stood there for a while watching the entire scene for a few seconds, and then he turned with a shaking of his head, went to the trailer and started to climb onto the platform, started to unload what had to stay here in the Middle Camp._

 **End Flashback**

However, the others soon had gathered around, watching him, and they soon had realized that Jean was moving between the load slithery, sorting out what had to be unloaded and what had to go to Flat Hollow. And they also soon had noticed that he wasn't as weak as he looked, and most importantly, that he didn't shy the work. What strength he'd had missed, he had compensated with skills and smartness and he had climbed from boxes to boxes and from sack to sack and back again without stopping once as if he'd been driven by an inner restlessness.

That had continued for a few minutes while the other truckers had been standing there, watching him, their arms crossed over their wide chests, but soon one of them had taken a step towards him, shaking his head.

"Hey, Little One!" He had called over with a thunderous voice. "Slow down, and keep your shirt on. We're at work and not at flight." And soon there had been hands over hands to take the boxes and sacks and had reached them to others who brought them inside the storage hall before bringing over the new load – one single mailbag for Flat Hollow.

The small phenomena named Jean McIory had then been brought into the barrack where a warm meal and a bottle of beer had been placed in front of him.

Climbing into the driver's cabin again and engaging the gear, Jean once more smiled at the memory. He'd been really young back then, barely eighteen years old, but today he was used to those monsters, and today he didn't shy back from getting into a quarrel with them. Well, of course not, he got along with nearly all of them, they sometimes made rough jokes, but it were jokes, only, and he knew that they'd all give the shirts on their backs if it were necessary.

Looking up at the sky he took a deep breath, frowning at the dark clouds that gathered overhead, and he knew that soon a snowstorm would approach.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 20, 1939, Wednesday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Wohehiv Hawkeye**

He knew that Diesel and his brothers didn't really get along well – and considering Diesel's behaviour sometimes, his manners, and his general handling situations, namely with drinking himself into a coma, then he couldn't really blame Harley and Denim.

It was years that he had seen the two for the last time – they must have been eighteen or nineteen years old back then while they had grown into fine men by now. Denim had left the small town the day after his graduation, and Harley had just gone with him, even though he'd been a year into his apprenticeship at Norman's Garage. The young man had had enough of his father's drinking and he'd said he'd go with Harley. They had planned to settle somewhere, and maybe they could find an apprenticeship together – and now they were both car mechanics and had their own garage in Florida.

"You didn't even think it necessary telling us about mom's death." Harley growled angrily. "Wohehiv and Norman had to inform us, just like when dad had died, and just like when Lizzy had died – not that I had cared about dad's death, but you didn't even think of informing us."

"Mom's been drinking, too." Diesel huffed, shrugging his shoulders. "How could I know that you cared 'bout her death more than 'bout dad's?"

"That's not the point!" Denim sighed.

"There's no point at all, gentlemen." Wohehiv shook his head. "I understand how you feel about it, really, but it is as it is, and you can't change it with arguing over it. Please, we should regard the funeral."

"And the funeral feast." Diesel said.

"If you want to have a funeral feast." Harley hissed in anger. "Then I suggest you take some of your drinking buddies, buy a few crates of beer by Trader Joe's, sit in front of the shop together on the floor, and drink yourself into a stupor – I'm sure that will do for you. I, on the other hand, don't need a funeral feast."

Well, he knew that Harley and Denim would both like it, sitting together with old friends, drinking coffee or maybe a beer or two, and talking about old times, but he also knew that both brothers feared that it would end in one big drinking bout. Maybe he could organize coffee here at the church. He'd talk with Gwyneth and Kayleigh, and maybe the two women would help him with that, bake a cake or two. It would be nice to chat with the two brothers again, he couldn't help thinking, in their youth they'd been friends, after all, and he'd always been happy to hear from the two.

It's been Diesel, Harley, Denim and Wohehiv, the quatrain, as they were called, and they'd been roaming the area – until Diesel had stepped into their father's footsteps with drinking rather soon, before graduating even, and Harley and Denim had very much suffered from it. Theresa hadn't been drinking much back then, just once in a while, seeing that Little Lizzy had been there, still, the girl being just eleven or twelve years old, but added to the overall flow of alcohol in the family, it had been enough to have Harley and Denim moving out as soon as possible.

"Do you know if there's a last will?" Wohehiv asked, even though he was sure that there wasn't. Theresa had never cared about such things, and surely not since he'd come to live in the resting home several years ago. "Anything she'd want for her funeral or for her last resting-place?"

They had gone over the ceremony and the official things that were necessary, and now he'd like to have a few informal information to make sure that it would really be a ceremony the way Theresa would have liked. But he should have known that there wouldn't be much the boys could offer.

"I know that she liked flowers." Denim said and he nodded his head. Of course he would know _that_ , he was the youngest of the three, the _'baby of the family'_ , and he'd always had a special relationship to his mother. "She liked roses, red and white roses. She had planted them in the garden so that they would mingle and she liked sitting there, just watching them."

"Perhaps." Harley growled. "But knowing that good-for-nothing brother of ours, he'd never take care of her gravesite."

"You better watch your tongue." Diesel hissed angrily. "I'm the oldest, after all."

"Then I suggest you start behaving according to it." Harley hissed back.

"Gentlemen, please." Wohehiv said, sighing.

Getting a bunch of snakes to dance a waltz in moonlight surely was easier than getting these three to stop arguing.

"We'll just order someone to look after the graveside." Denim said, placing his hand on Harley's shoulder to keep him from giving a biting remark to that. Of course he knew that – surely it shouldn't be a problem for Diesel to exchange the roses on their mother's graveside with new and fresh roses once a week, buying red and white ones and they'd even give him the money for it, but well, knowing that he wouldn't manage due to being drunk – someone else had to do it.

It was as easy as that.

"If that's all …" Diesel said, getting off his chair and taking his jacket.

"Sure." Harley scoffed in disdain. "Go back to your beer bottles."

There wasn't an answer from Diesel, just the man shrugging his shoulders and then leaving the church, and he knew that the man wouldn't be accessible until the funeral – if he'd even be accessible by then.

"Diesel." He called after him, causing the man to turn back for a moment. "Your mother would be happy to see you during her funeral." He then added, just to give the man something – but still, there was no answer except of a glare before Diesel turned and left the building, throwing the glass doors shut.

"I'll make sure that there'll be roses here during the ceremony." He said. "And I'm sure that Caitlyn has a few pictures of Theresa, the both of them have been friends, after all. I also could ask Gwyneth and Kayleigh to organize coffee here in church after the ceremony."

"Make sure that there's no alcohol." Harley answered, and he could understand the man's reasoning.

"Of course." He answered, seriously. "It will be coffee and an apple cake or two. Maybe even a cheesecake."

"That damn blizzard …" A dark voice that seemed strangely known to him murmured, and looking over at the entrance door, he blinked in pure shock for a moment, because if that wasn't –

But what would …

"Hereweald." He greeted the man in near shock, waving him over.

"What …" The man blinked after he'd brushed the snow off his clothes and hair, looking around the lobby.

"Come and take a seat." He said, pointing at a chair.

He didn't know what exactly Hereweald Hrothgar was doing here, and he didn't really think that the man would really sit down with them, but Hereweald was here, he was here, and so he would just invite him, of course.

"Where, for heaven's sake, have I ended up, now?" The man asked, and now it was clear that he'd just lost his way in the roaring snowstorm, and as this church didn't really look like a church, he'd most likely planned on going someplace else.

'Thank you, God, for leading that old crank here.' He couldn't help thinking for a moment.

"In our church." He explained. "Come, and have a cup of coffee. That's Harley Sanchez and his brother Denim, and this here is Professor Hereweald Hrothgar."

Well – he knew, if there was anything existent that could make Hereweald really sitting down here, then it was coffee.

"Good afternoon." Both men greeted and Hereweald inclined his head in way of greeting.

"That's your … church …" The man said, looking around a second time, this time with a lifted eyebrow. "Couldn't you just build a church one wouldn't mistake in a snowstorm for a shop, a store or any other such house? Do you have to lure innocent people in here like a spider her pray into her net?" But well, the man hadn't turned to leave yet.

"Just come and sit." He smiled, invitingly, and poured a cup of coffee. He couldn't help feeling happy when Hereweald really took a seat at their table after a moment of hesitation.

"You know, yesterday it's been Chandler, luring me into his house, and today it's you." Hereweald accused, and he couldn't help blinking at the biochemist. "Really, one could start thinking that your God is trying to manipulate me into something only he knows."

Hereweald had been visiting Cameron yesterday? And now he was sitting here at their church? In this case, there really was more than just one miracle. Maybe God was really planning something with Hereweald? Why else would he make him visiting Cameron and now church, in two following days?

Well, he didn't know, but God surely would, he thought, smiling, while sitting back down to go on with the chat.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between snow and ice …**

 _The sixth chapter: a truck is rolling over ice …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	6. the redskin and the northman

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading …

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Added author's notes:**

This first chapter, the foreword, might give away the impression that the story might be a biography – _it is not_. I have only written it so that you might know, not all of what happens in a book is fiction. There are things which are very much reality for some people and even though the story in the book might be playing at a different place and to a different time, for different persons – sometimes part of it might be real for some people anyway, never mind if it is the story of one particular person, if it is the story of a nation, or if it is the story of how God can work miracles in people.

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smurge, bring brown rings caused by your coffeecup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _"Hereweald." He greeted the man in near shock, waving him over._

 _"What …" The man blinked after he'd brushed the snow off his clothes and hair, looking around the lobby._

 _"Come and take a seat." He said, pointing at a chair._

 _He didn't know what exactly Hereweald Hrothgar was doing here, and he didn't really think that the man would really sit down with them, but Hereweald was here, he was here, and so he would just invite him, of course._

 _"Where, for heaven's sake, have I ended up, now?" The man asked, and now it was clear that he'd just lost his way in the snowstorm, and as this church didn't really look like a church, he'd most likely planned on going someplace else._

 _'Thank you, God, for leading that old crank here.' He couldn't help thinking for a moment._

 _"In our church." He explained. "Come, and have a cup of coffee. That's Harley Sanchez and his brother Denim, and this here is Professor Hereweald Hrothgar."_

 _Well – he knew, if there was anything existent that could make Hereweald really sitting down here, then it was coffee._

 _"Good afternoon." Both men greeted and Hereweald inclined his head in way of greeting, like he so often did._

 _"A nice name from a legendary Danish king living in the 6_ _th_ _century." Denim smiled, and he chuckled at the comparison, because he couldn't help thinking that Hereweald Hrothgar could really be that Northman from long ago._

 _"That's your … church …" The man said, looking around a second time, this time with a lifted eyebrow. "Couldn't you just build a church one wouldn't mistake in a snowstorm for a shop, a store or any other such house? Do you have to lure innocent people in here like a spider her pray into her net?" But well, the man hadn't turned to leave yet._

 _"Just come and sit." He smiled, invitingly, and poured a cup of coffee. He couldn't help feeling happy when Hereweald really took a seat at their table after a moment of hesitation._

 _"You know, yesterday it's been Chandler, luring me into his house, and today it's you." Hereweald accused, and he couldn't help blinking at the biochemist. "Really, one could start thinking that your God is trying to manipulate me into something only he knows."_

 _Hereweald had been visiting Cameron yesterday? And now he was sitting here at their church? In this case, there really was more than just one miracle. Maybe God was really planning something with Hereweald? Why else would he make him visiting Cameron and now church, in two following days?_

 _Well, he didn't know, but God surely would, he thought, smiling, while sitting back down to go on with the chat._

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter six – the redskin and the Northman**

 **Or – a Vampire in church**

 **December 20, 1939, Wednesday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

"You know, yesterday it's been Chandler, luring me into his house, and today it's you." He huffed at his – _friend_ , if one could call the Indian that. "Really, one could start thinking that your God is trying to manipulate me into something only he knows."

"Who knows what God has planned for you … so, you've been forced to meeting Cameron outside of school." Wohehiv said, and for a moment he had a biting remark on his tongue, but then he narrowed his eyes at the Indian.

"Yes, I've been." He nodded and took a deep breath, his eyes daringly narrowed at Wohehiv. "And as much as it causes a headache, I have to admit that it's been an … _agreeable_ … evening." He then admitted – nothing he'd do every day.

"Of course it was." Wohehiv laughed. "Or did you think that Cameron would fix you to a chair and then start reading the bible to you?"

"I would have liked seeing _that_ , redskin." He growled, because it was coming close to exactly what he'd feared, especially after the prayer Chandler had spoken before having dinner.

There was a short intake of breath at the word _'redskin'_ he used, or maybe at the tone of voice he'd used, and looking over at the two men that were sitting together with Wohehiv, he could see anger flaring in their eyes for a moment.

"I guess, Cameron knew he'd die of poisoning if he did, _Northman_." Wohehiv laughed, ignoring the startled gasps of the other two, and the Indian actually blinked an eye at him.

"Exactly." He huffed.

"Hereweald is a chemistry professor." Wohehiv then explained to the other two. "Teaching the children up there at Hathaway."

"Sanchez." He said, looking at the two men, because he had no wish of talking about Hathaway. He knew exactly what the people down here were thinking of the boarding school up there on Whitechapel Mount. "You don't happen to being related to young Timmy Sanchez?"

"He's our Nephew." Harley sighed. "And living here with our brother, Diesel."

Yes, the drunkard.

He'd realized that last summer when the boy had been to the hospital at a regular basis to visit his friend who'd been bit by a snake.

"I've met the boy last summer." He nodded. "A boy, far from being a snotty idiot like so many other his age. He shouldn't be living with a drunkard."

"How would a Professor from Hathaway know about a boy living down here in town?" Harley asked, and it was clear that the man didn't like him due to his _'redskin'_ he'd used a moment ago – or maybe due to the _'snotty idiot'_ he'd just used to describe children in general.

"I know more than just that which is before my eyes only." He huffed. "What kind of teacher would I be if I knew nothing about the area I'm working in?"

"We've planned on taking the boy with us to Florida when Lizzy died." Denim shook his head. "I guess Diesel would be glad if he were rid of the boy, too, but Timmy refuses. He insists that God had told him to stay here, and who are we to go against God's will?"

"What kind of God is that, who asks a child to live with a grumpy old drunkard?" He growled, looking over at Wohehiv, because he knew that the Indian was one of the preachers of the church down here.

"We don't know the paths God is taking, Hereweald." Wohehiv said, actually believing what he was babbling. "We don't, because we don't have His perspective, while at the same time – Little Timmy is lacking nothing. He has breakfast here at the church, he has lunch here after school, and if he so wishes, he can come for dinner, too. He has friends he's out playing with, or he's visiting, and only for sleeping he is at Diesel's house – and at most times, Diesel, too, is sleeping by then. I doubt that Little Timmy has a lot of contact with Diesel."

"In other words, the boy lacks a family." He shook his head.

"No, he doesn't." Wohehiv shrugged his shoulders. "We are his family. This entire church is his family. God seems to have a plan with Little Timmy, and so he's taking care of him in form of giving him an entire church as his family. The boy can come whenever he wishes, never mind what, and there's always someone here, never mind when."

"During the night, too?" He couldn't help asking.

"During the night, too." Wohehiv nodded his head. "Not here in this building, but any person here in New Heaven's Valley, would open their door for young Timmy if he were to knock in the middle of the night."

"Do not take us wrong, Mr. Hrothgar." Harley said. "We have tried to talk to Timmy a few times, whenever we are here, but he doesn't want to leave. He's persistent on his believe that God needs him here, and here he will remain. We have no right to go against that and take him with us by force. He'd never be happy then."

Well, of course the boy wouldn't.

But was he happy here?

In a way he could understand the situation – but what about the child?

His own father had been a drunkard, and so he knew what it meant for a child to live with someone like that. So – what about the child?

On the other hand, he'd handled the boy during the summer holidays quite often, and yes, he'd been miserable, but only because he'd been blaming himself for his friend being close to death – a normal reaction _any_ child would have shown and it had nothing to do with his caretaker being a drunkard. But other than that, he'd been a normal, happy and annoying child like any other and neither depressive nor miserable due to his living environment.

"Well, it's none of my business." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Where have you been to, anyway?" Wohehiv then asked. "Why would you go out in the middle of a snowstorm?"

"I've been on my way to the sheriff when I accidentally stepped into this house of yours."

"Sorry, but this house doesn't look one bit like the police station." Wohehiv said.

"No, but it has the same entrance like the grocery." He huffed. "I just wanted to buy a roll or two, or maybe a piece of cake when I accidentally stumbled into this – place."

"And then you wanted to annoy Cole with asking him to open the streets for you in the midst of a blizzard." Wohehiv laughed.

"Yesterday and last night it's been worse." He shook his head. "I presume that this is the end of the storm and it is high time for the streets being opened."

Damn, sure – this here was the third snowstorm within two days, but this one was less threatening like the other two yesterday and last night had been and he doubted that another one would come.

"Sorry, but even if this was the end of it, Cole won't open the streets before tomorrow or the day after tomorrow." Wohehiv said, and he glared at the man. "The Ranger and Jethro have been to the outskirts in the early morning hours, surveying the damage the blizzard has done so far, and there's more than just too much of ice and snow on the roads. I fear it will last two days at the least until the roads are open again."

"Nice." He growled, taking a sip of the coffee, and he had to admit that it was no pantywaist-coffee like he'd thought Christians would cook, but an acceptable brewage.

"Very nice, indeed." Wohehiv chuckled. "Because that means I have a few extra days off."

"And what about the hospital?" He asked, his brows furrowed.

"They have called for Doc Brown from Whitechapel Mount City." Wohehiv shrugged his shoulders. "And now I'm cutting back some overtime hours."

"You have enough of those." He nodded his head, because he knew that Wohehiv could just as well take his bed with him to the hospital, especially in summer. "After all, that might ensure Christmas here in New Heaven's Valley for me." The Cheyenne smiled.

"Always the optimist with the glass half full." Denim Sanchez grinned.

"Of course." Wohehiv chuckled. "You know, the optimist sees the glass half full, the pessimist sees the glass half empty, the chemist sees the glass completely full, half with liquid and half with air, I surely don't care for the glass but take the bottle – and Hereweald here throws the glass at the wall."

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Jethro Chandler**

"One hundred and three." He said, taking the thermometer and casting a critical eye on the boy, because that was no low-grade fever anymore but was becoming a high-grade fever that required medication or at least the expert eye of the Doc.

The boy was pale with red cheeks caused by the fever, glassy eyes, and he seemed all in all rather miserable – of course he did. There was no comment, and pushing another cup of his special tea into the boy's hands, he got off and to the telephone on the counter, dialling Doc Henson's number.

During the early morning hours, while the boy had – finally – been sleeping soundly, he'd used the time and had been to the outskirts together with Cole and the Ranger, and it's been clear that the small town would be cut off the rest of the world for several days more. Not only had there been more snow and ice on the roads than he liked, but also had there been several fallen logs blocking the streets – but what had really troubled both men, had been a slope up Whitechapel Mount that had halfway come down, blocking the route off and threatening to coming down completely, damaging the street above, too, and he knew that it would take them several hours, if not days, to clear away the snow and ice and to repair the damage.

"Chandler." He said when Mrs. Mason said her name and asked whom he'd want to talk to. "I need Doc Henson."

"The Doc isn't at home." The woman said.

"Maybe so – would you please connect me with the Doc anyway?" He sighed, shaking his head.

"He isn't at home, really." Mrs. Mason insisted. "I've heard how Corbin Crow has called him over because he'd fallen from the ladder when he'd tried to repair the roof of his stables. He's broken his leg and the Doc has to splint it. And of course his whole leg has to be put into a cast – and that's just happened barely an hour ago. I really don't think that the Doc is back by now, not with that cast and surely not with that blizzard going on either."

"Well …" He growled. "Should you overhear a conversation during which it is mentioned that the Doc is back in his office, then please be so kind to call me – or better, just send him over to my house."

"Over- …" The woman gasped in plain shock. "I … overhear … I'd never listen in on a conversation … that's private …"

"Of course you wouldn't." He sighed. "Just try the connection or send him over the moment you notice him being home."

Mrs. Mason was well known for listening in on the conversations she was plugging, what was the reason as to why she always knew things first-hand, and then told others, of course. If one wanted to know what was going on in New Heaven's Valley – they just had to go to the stationery and have a nice chat with Mrs. Mason … they'd know everything even before the people concerned knew, and of course she'd tell people each solution even before the problem was up.

Turning back to the kitchen table he could see the boy laying with his head over his arms he'd placed on the kitchen table.

"Drink your tea." He said.

"I see no reason in drinking that tea." The boy tiredly sighed. "I'm going to die anyway – that tea won't really help, and it's still ugly."

"You're not going to die, boy." Jethro shook his head at the boy's antics. "You have a cold and a simple fever, and that's no reason for death. Drink that tea as long as it's hot, and then I suggest we play a game of cards to get you off your misery for a bit."

There was a soft "'k." before the boy took the cup of tea, listlessly, and then took a sip, grimacing at the – taste of old socks, as he'd put it earlier in the morning.

He'd try to reach Doc Henson later, and until then he'd just keep the boy occupied with a few games, and he shook his head at the boy's earlier antics.

Dying! Really!

How had that thought come to his mind?

And taking the cards from the board, he went back to the kitchen table, and to the – clearly dying – boy that was wrapped up in a blanket, sipping the tea.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

"Of course." Wohehiv chuckled. "You know, the optimist sees the glass half full, the pessimist sees the glass half empty, the chemist sees the glass completely full, half with liquid and half with air, I surely don't care for the glass but take the bottle – and Hereweald here throws the glass at the wall."

"Causing a nice clinking sound …" Came a dark voice that was strangely known to him from the entrance door, and turning around, he could see that man he'd seen last evening in the grocery.

Black Jeans, a black, woollen cloak the man was taking off, revealing a black scarf over a black shirt, and long, black hair was falling into two deep black eyes that were watching him the way they had yesterday evening.

"I didn't know that your church allows Vampires to enter." He couldn't help whispering into Wohehiv's direction, his own black eyes narrowed at the man in question – who chuckled lightly at his comment he'd clearly heard … and understood.

"I do thank you for that compliment, sir." The man said. "By your leave, Sébastien Lafayette."

"An old name." He answered. "Hereweald Hrothgar." He then introduced himself.

" _A_ just as old name, from the north." The man smiled, and pouring a cup of coffee before he came over to sit down, too. "The redskin, the Northman and the Vampire at church – what a nice gathering." The man then said, and he couldn't help wondering how the guy knew about the general jest between Wohehiv and himself – maybe, they had the same, somehow? But they were church goers, how could they have a jest like that?

"You have taken a look at that ledge?" Wohehiv then asked.

"I have." The Vampire answered. "And if there's any more snow coming down, then the entire hillside will collapse, burying half of Black Willow Lane."

"That's very bad news." Wohehiv took a deep breath. "That would be the homes of at least seven families."

"I suggest we evacuate." The dark man called Lafayette said. "Even if it stops snowing soon, the weight of the snow on the ledge is already enough so that it might collapse. I have just told the families concerned – I guess they'll be here soon."

"Good." Wohehiv nodded his head, and somehow he knew that the Cheyenne would have done the same, telling the families to come to the church – a reasonable thing to do, even _he_ had to admit that, never mind if he liked the church in general.

"We'll make more coffee." The two guys – Harley and Denim – said, getting off the chairs and strolling over to what he guessed was a kitchen, and for a moment he wondered why a church would have a kitchen to begin with … but then, this was anything but what he would be thinking of when having the word church in mind.

"As far as I can tell, there are a few empty rooms in the motel – even though I can't see a reason as to why one would go there by free will." He said. "I've only taken a room in that bloody flea house due to the little fact that I'm stranded here in this blasted one horse town."

"I'll keep that in mind." Wohehiv seriously nodded his head, clearly ignoring his comment about the flea house in the one horse town. "Encase it comes to the worst, but so far I guess we have enough room here in the church to house a few families for a few days, especially as it is the holidays and elementary school is closed."

"You know, you have the strangest church I've ever seen." He couldn't help saying.

"A church where even Vampires are allowed." The Vampire chuckled.

"If they existed." He huffed in annoyance at the man's persistence, lifting his eyebrow. "I very much doubt _that_."

"Don't worry, I'm not drinking blood." The Vampire said. "On the contrary, I'm a vegetarian."

"A vegetarian Vampire in church." He couldn't help growling. "That's a story."

"I have to remember that one." The Vampire laughed.

There was a strange look Wohehiv was throwing at a newcomer who was throwing another strange look at the man in question after he'd clearly heard the last two sentences, a look he didn't really know how to place, and for a moment he wondered what was behind it. But then he shrugged it off, because it was none of his business.

Of course he knew that Vampires didn't exist.

They belonged into the world of legends and myths to scare the children and to fascinate the teens, and while there had always been a few people believing such nonsense, he didn't. He was a scientist, and he knew that there was no room in the evolution for such a fantasy race – anyhow, he couldn't help wondering about that dark man called Sébastien Lafayette.

"Hello Michael, take a seat." Wohehiv greeted the newcomer, getting off his chair and giving the other man a short embrace. "Well, in your eyes this might be a strange church, Hereweald." Wohehiv then said, seriously. "But this is a church like the first churches. This is a house that belongs to God, and God wants it to be a house for everyone and especially for those in need."

Throwing a pitiful look at the Cheyenne he had a hard time keeping himself from giving away a biting remark about idiocy and then about even more idiocy. For a moment he wondered why he'd keep himself from giving away that remark in the first place, because it wasn't really like him to keep from speaking his mind, or like keeping himself from hurting people, never mind if they were friend or foe, but then he scowled and simply ignored it.

"What do you think, professor of chemistry." Lafayette said and he wondered how that man could know about his profession – but then, Mrs. Chandler had said it last night … he was well known throughout the area. "If more than three families come together here in this church, especially if it's our Irish families, the chances of a feast are high. Would you care for a glass of good, old red wine, tonight?"

"The same old wine you've brought for the summer feast, Lafayette?" This Michael guy asked, and somehow it was clear that there was something between the two, an animosity that was lurking beneath the surface.

"Of course, Michael." The Vampire answered. "It's the best red wine throughout the country. Only in Athens you might find wine that is older and better than mine. Now, what do you say, Professor?"

"I do thank you for that offer, Mr. Lafayette, but I fear that I have spent enough time at a place where people are praying to a God that is not existent."

"How would you proof God's – none-existence?" Michael asked, looking at him with his eyes narrowed, and somehow he knew that the other man would like to say more.

"I have no interest in proving or disproving God's existence or none-existence." He shrugged his shoulders. "You might believe in him as long as you wish – I just don't."

"And nevertheless this God has led you here, has enticed you into Cameron's house and now into His own house." Lafayette smiled a satisfied smile and he growled at the man.

"It was by chance that I ended up here." He huffed.

"Was it by chance?" Lafayette asked, and he glared at the wannabe-Vampire. That man might be playing a role like coming from a medieval movie, but he was just a simple idiot believer in God.

He'd not be impressed by that man, nor by his antics.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Penelope Cleveland**

She had quickly packed a few things – spare clothes, soap, a washcloth and towels as well as her toothbrush and toothpaste, and a few personal things, and she had made sure that Damien and Dorian had packed theirs, too. She knew that everything else was at the church – plates and cups, and cutlery – they didn't need taking that with them. They'd just taken their pillows and blankets, because she wasn't sure if there'd be enough at the church – who knew how many people would be coming, after all? And maybe it was good if a few had their bedding with them … just encase.

Sébastien had been here just an hour ago, telling them that maybe the lodge up Whitechapel Mount would be coming down due to the mass of snow, and that it would be burying a few houses if that happened, and she didn't really doubt that. After all, there had already been a slope up the mountain that had already come down partly, blocking the serpentine road.

However, the man had suggested that they – just in case – packed a few things and went to the church.

She didn't really know if they would be welcomed, and she couldn't help feeling scared.

It was true that she had visited the church a few times during the past few months, since that big fire in summer, but mostly she'd visited during the week. She'd just once or twice visited sermon on Sundays together with her sons – so, maybe she wouldn't be welcomed.

Damien and Dorian would be, she didn't worry about that, because for several months now they were visiting sermon on Sundays, and they were visiting the bible study curse – or whatever it was called, too. So, there was no reason to doubt her boys being safe, but she guessed that in the end she'd be sent away.

They had always welcomed her for a cup of coffee or a piece of cake if she came in on her way home from the grocery, or on her way home from school, but that was different. Sébastien had suggested that they moved into the church for a few days until their own houses were safe, a few days, and that was just – whoa!

It wasn't just for an evening, or for a meal, for a feast here or there where she could bring salad or a cake, or where she could help in the kitchen. No, it was … living there for a few days, and that was an entire different matter. How could she be welcomed to live there if she wasn't really a member of their church?

Hurrying her boys towards the building she couldn't stop worrying, and the moment she entered, she did it with a wildly beating heart and a suffocating feeling in her chest.

"Penelope." Caitlyn called, coming towards her. "We already thought you wouldn't come and I was just about to send Dewayne over to look after you."

"Dorian ran back because he forgot his bible." She said, somewhat relieved, but still not really ensured.

"He shouldn't have done that." Caitlyn said, giving the boy a scolding look. "We have enough bibles here and yours can be replaced while your life can't. Now come, Harley and Denim have made dinner. Victor Almond has brought steaks and sausages, Abraham Johnson has brought cans of corn, and Isaiah Cane has brought two sacks of potatoes."

"Not to mention the two barrels of wine Sébastien has brought." Morgan nodded his head – and somehow she knew that there surely was a bottle of the man's good old whiskey, too, which Morgan would be preferring tonight, ignoring the … good old wine. "I really wonder wherefrom that man always brings barrels full of wine."

"I have a secret, underground storage." The man in question came by, greeting her and leading her towards a table. He took the bag with her things and the pillow and blanket she'd taken from the bed before leaving, giving everything to young Calvin Macintyre, the apprentice who worked at the drug store. "Please bring that to the raccoon room, Calvin." He told the young man. "The squirrel room is filled. And take Damien and Dorian with you so that they can put their things upstairs, too. Take a seat, Penelope, please." He then said, leading her to the large table they had placed and lain in the lobby.

"Good evening, Penelope." Cameron said, greeting her, too. "It's good to see you safe and sound."

"Why shouldn't I be?" She asked, not really understanding. "Sébastien has told us about the ledge, but nothing has happened so far."

"Not with the ledge." Cameron said. "But Corbin has fallen from the ladder when he tried to repair the roof of his stables, and he has broken his leg. Doc Henson has brought him over with the car so that he wouldn't be alone on the farm. And Leonard has fallen when he tried to shovel the snow off before his house. Ann-Kathrin has brought him here because she couldn't reach Doc Henson, because the Doc was at Corbin's Farm. And then Samuel came here, asking for the Doc – or Wohehiv – holding his hand he'd broken when slipping and landing on it. It's really a busy day so far."

"Not to mention that idiot boy who'd nearly frozen to death because of a cat." A man she'd never before seen growled in a deep voice, and she couldn't help comparing him with Sébastien or with Dunstan. Both were as dark and as strange as was this one man.

"Hereweald Hrothgar." Wohehiv introduced him. "He's been helping with the broken bones and the nearly frozen boy – Finn Abrahamsen, who went after his cat that had run off and into the blizzard. It has taken Old Birk hours until he'd found the boy, and Hereweald had just left when meeting the two. He'd right away brought them both in here, and after that he's been a great help in this makeshift sickbay, nearly like up there on Whitechapel Mount Hospital during the summer holidays. I wouldn't have managed everything alone."

"What is the only reason as to why I am still here." The dark man growled and she wondered why he wasn't leaving if he didn't like it here.

"You'll stay for the feast, won't you Professor?" Sébastien came over and asked the stranger, Gabe in his wake wo grinned at them.

"Of course he will." The blond said, leading them all to the table. "In for some work, in for a meal."

"It's movie-day, tomorrow." Sarah Jayden said, sitting down beside her. "A movie is thirty cents and refreshments are included on Thursdays. You're coming?"

"Are they playing _'gone with the wind'_?" Rebecca Mac Guaire asked, leaning over.

"The poster says so." Sarah nodded her head. "It started on December 15th."

"Then you have to come, Penelope." Rebecca said, seriously. "It's had its premiere at Loew's Grand Theatre in Atlanta, Georgia, starring Vivien Leigh, Clark Gable, and Leslie Howard. It's based on Margaret Mitchell's best-selling novel, and it's the longest American movie made up so far – it's nearly four hours."

"Well …" She said, shrugging her shoulders – not because she was disinterested, but because she was unsure. She's been invited into church a few times since July, and she'd been to visit a few times, too. She'd even been meeting there with Sarah once in a while, instead of in the coffee house.

But this here was different.

Because this here was an invitation to actually do something with the two women, something different than drinking coffee at their church, something – friends would be doing together, and she didn't really know if she really would be welcomed.

Slowly she nodded.

She'd try it – and she'd see.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between snow and ice …**

 _Chapter seven_ _: a crank in church …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	7. a book, a fob watch and ten thousand rea

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading …

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Added author's notes:**

This first chapter, the foreword, might give away the impression that the story might be a biography – _it is not_. I have only written it so that you might know, not all of what happens in a book is fiction. There are things which are very much reality for some people and even though the story in the book might be playing at a different place and to a different time, for different persons – sometimes part of it might be real for some people anyway, never mind if it is the story of one particular person, if it is the story of a nation, or if it is the story of how God can work miracles in people.

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smurge, bring brown rings caused by your coffeecup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _"Hereweald Hrothgar." Wohehiv introduced him. "He's been helping with the broken bones and the nearly frozen boy – Finn Abrahamsen, who went after his cat that had run off and into the blizzard. It has taken Old Birk hours until he'd found the boy, and Hereweald had just left when meeting the two. He'd right away brought them both in here, and after that he's been a great help in this makeshift sickbay, nearly like up there on Whitechapel Mount Hospital during the summer holidays. I wouldn't have managed everything alone."_

 _"What is the only reason as to why I am still here." The dark man growled and she wondered why he wasn't leaving if he didn't like it here._

 _"You'll stay for the feast, won't you Professor?" Sébastien came over and asked the stranger, Gabe in his wake wo grinned at them._

 _"Of course he will." The blond said, leading them all to the table. "In for some work, in for a meal."_

 _"It's movie-day, tomorrow." Sarah Jayden said, sitting down beside her. "A movie is thirty cents and refreshments are included on Thursdays. You're coming?"_

 _"Are they playing 'gone with the wind'?" Rebecca Mac Guaire asked, leaning over._

 _"The poster says so." Sarah nodded her head. "It started on December 15_ _th_ _."_

 _"Then you have to come, Penelope." Rebecca said, seriously. "It's had its premiere at Loew's Grand Theatre in Atlanta, Georgia, starring Vivien Leigh, Clark Gable, and Leslie Howard. It's based on Margaret Mitchell's best-selling novel, and it's the longest American movie made up so far – it's nearly four hours."_

 _"Well …" She said, shrugging her shoulders – not because she was disinterested, but because she was unsure. She's been invited into church a few times since July, and she'd been to visit a few times, too. She'd even been meeting there with Sarah once in a while, instead of in the coffee house._

 _But this here was different._

 _Because this here was an invitation to actually do something with the two women, something different than drinking coffee at their church, something – friends would be doing together, and she didn't really know if she really would be welcomed._

 _Slowly she nodded._

 _She'd try it – and she'd see._

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter seventh – a book, a fob watch and ten thousand reasons**

 **Or – how to fall in love**

 **December 21** **st** **, 1939, Thursday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Jethro Chandler**

Choosing a paper that had green and red squares on it, he wrapped the book – or at least, he tried to wrap the book, after all, it was the very first time that he packed a Christmas present.

Of course it wasn't the first time that he gave something away for Christmas. Emily would kill him if he refused dinner on Christmas eve and the following Christmas breakfast, and of course he couldn't come to visit without a Christmas present for at least little Mary-Anne. But he'd never actually packed the girl's present. He'd given it to Emily for wrapping it up, telling her that clearly it would look nicer if she did the job, and the presents for the two, for Emily and Cameron – because the two would give him something year for year, for year, causing him to partake in that nonsense habit – he simply put them beneath the tree without wrapping paper.

Wohehiv had been over last night, he couldn't help remembering while wondering which way to put the paper around the book – or maybe better the book on the paper?

The boy's fever had risen another degree, and Doc Henson had still not been home – and neither had Wohehiv. But he knew that he could reach Wohehiv in the church, and so he'd called there, asking for the Indian. He would have preferred calling Doc Henson, because Doc Henson would have been less – annoying – than Wohehiv, but well, that's been luxury and he'd just dealt with the Cheyenne.

"It's one hundred and four." He'd told the man with the long black hair he'd done in a braid when he'd arrived. He had already told him via telephone that Walter had a cold and a fever, but knowing that most likely Mrs. Mason would listen in on the conversation, he'd had no inclination of giving away more information than absolutely necessary.

"You could have called me earlier, you know." Wohehiv had said, coming into the house and making his way into the living room straight away.

Walter had been looking up at the Indian for a moment before placing his head back at the pillow.

"Well, that looks serious." Wohehiv had said with a smile he couldn't suppress.

There had been a short moment of taking the temperature, of Wohehiv listening to the boy's lungs and heartbeat, looking into the boy's mouth – and then: "I've brought some herbs." Wohehiv had said and he'd taken a deep breath, because he had already so many herbs from the man, he could start a shop to sell them. "And of these M&Bs he's to take one in the morning, at noon and in the evening each. It should be better by Saturday."

"Tell that Walter." He'd huffed. "He's positive that he's going to die."

"Why would you think that you're going to die?" Wohehiv had asked, his brows furrowed in clear confusion. "Your lungs are alright and your heartbeat is strong. A bit too fast due to the fever but surely no reason for death."

"It's 'cause of the fever." The boy had said, still listlessly.

"Your temperature is 104, that's no slight fever anymore, but it's still not really dangerously high." Wohehiv had answered.

 **Flashback**

 _"Your temperature is 104, that's no slight fever anymore, but it's still not really dangerously high." Wohehiv said, looking at the boy with some sort of confusion._

 _"Sure it is." Walter said, stubbornly._

 _"Why is that so?" Wohehiv had taken a seat at the sofa, clearly curious by now, but somehow he also had the impression that the Indian already knew the answer to the riddle._

 _"Mr. Goodwin has said so." The boy insisted, still stubbornly and Jethro furrowed his brows, because who'd say such a stupid thing? "He's said that the normal body temperature is thirty-seven degrees, and that no one would survive a fever that's higher than forty-two, and that's just five degrees different while one hundred and four is so far higher than thirty-seven – and even forty-two, that I'm surely going to die, and soon."_

 _"I've thought something like that." Wohehiv smiled. "Allow me to explain to you the difference between Fahrenheit and Celsius, alright? Alright." The man then said when Walter nodded his head. "In the year 1724 a German-Dutch physicist, Daniel Gabriel Fahrenheit, proposed the scale Fahrenheit in which the freezing point of water is 32 degrees Fahrenheit and the boiling point 212 degrees, placing the boiling and the freezing points of water exactly 180 degrees apart – maybe because it is the opposite point in a circle with 360 degrees. Some years later, in the year 1743, the Frenchman Jean Pierre Cristin created the scale with the freezing point 0° and the boiling point of 100°, maybe because it's easier to handle them, I don't really know. The only boundary point where the two meet is … -20°C is the same as is -20°F. However, now I guess that Mr. Goodwin has meant Celsius while we've been speaking of Fahrenheit."_

 _"Uhm – that means …?" The boy made, looking up at the Indian, blinking stupidly._

 _"Well, you have a fever when your temperature rises above its normal range which is – depending on the individual, the time of day or the weather – for most people around 98.6° Fahrenheit or 37° Celsius. Some people have a normal temperature that's a little higher, others have a normal temperature that's a little lower, and for most kids, their body temperature stays pretty much the same from day to day – until germs ever the game – and now your temperature is 104° Fahrenheit – or 40° Celsius – that's a high fever, but not really dangerous. If Jethro here tells you that your fiver has risen to 107° or higher, then you can start worrying, but for now I suggest you enjoy the few days off, and take the M &Bs so that you're alright until Christmas eve."_

 **End flashback**

Deciding that he'd been fighting look enough with the book and the wrapping paper, he tried to create a bow with the rest of the brown band he'd chosen.

So, that's been that.

The boy had been much happier after Wohehiv had left, and finally he'd been sleeping peacefully.

Really – why had the boy not told him about this medic, up there at Hathaway speaking of Celsius? And why had this man not used Fahrenheit like any normal people to begin with? Or at least explain the difference to the children? How, in God's name, could they scare the children like that?

But well, the riddle was solved, and the boy was going to be alright, taking the medications Wohehiv had prescribed. They'd play games for the day, and he, Jethro, would take a look at the outskirts again after the storm had ceased for good.

Both, Benson and the Ranger had been over in the early morning hours, telling him about the slope and the ledge which threatened to come down, and they had already started to stabilize the ledge that threatened to come down on Black Willow Lane. The families living in the houses concerned were evacuated and so there was at least no life that was at risk. Anything else, they could deal with.

Not really happy with it, he put aside the small package, hiding it in the unit that held the pans and pots, and then he started cooking the tea.

The kid would come down, soon, and he wanted to have breakfast ready by then, because it was high time that there was someone who was there if the kid was ill.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

"Was it by chance?"

It was a question that didn't leave his mind anymore, and he cursed the questioner, Lafayette.

"Was it by chance?"

Of course it was! What a stupid question! It was by chance, because something like a God that worked for the people who prayed for him, simply didn't exist. One – a God that was powerful enough to create not only earth in seven days but men, too, would surely not answer to the whims and woes of those he had created, and two – God was a myth people had created so that they had something they could threaten other people with if they didn't answer to law, order and decency, anyway.

Earlier in the morning he had called Hendrik, telling him that he was stuck here for a day more – or maybe two, and Hendrik had informed him that there was nothing to worry about, that Mr. Constantin was fine and sound. He'd got a cup of coffee from the kitchen, but he had refused to partake in breakfast in the hall. He'd taken his cup and then he'd gone back to his room, reading the newspaper he'd taken from the counter in the reception, drinking the coffee that was – anything but acceptable.

He'd met a guy with bleary eyes, wearing his pyjamas still, being on his way for breakfast. A woman had been sitting at one of the tables, sipping her coffee and waving at him, happily. And another guy had just entered the hall the moment he had, wearing a white undershirt and Jeans he'd clearly worn for days, being unshaved and unkempt. He'd sneered at the people with as much disdain as possible before he'd turned to the coffee maker, filling a cup and turning to leave. How could people be so – unbearable, and so insufferable! Wearing their pyjamas in public, coming down for breakfast in their underwear, and waving at people in the early morning hours.

Didn't they have any sense of decorum?

He'd have his students in detention for the remainder of their miserable lives if they behaved like that! Appearing in pyjamas for meals! That was unacceptable!

He couldn't deny that it had been a tolerable feast, last night, and Lafayette had been correct – the Irish fraction of the church had been well experienced in celebrating. He hadn't been drunk, of course not, but it's been more than one glass of Lafayette's best red wine, and it's been more than two fingers of the Whiskey McFlaherty had brought, too.

"You're Christians!" He'd said to Lafayette. "Shouldn't you keep your fingers away from alcohol?"

"Do you really think you're forbidden all the fun and nice things in life the moment you start following God?" Lafayette had asked back, looking at him with unbelieving eyes. "The question is not what you're doing – the question is how you're doing things, and if you're taking God with you or not."

"In other words – you're drinking together with God." He'd said, his tone of voice sarcastic.

"Of course." Lafayette had confirmed, lifting his glass at him before taking another sip of the heavy red wine, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "I'd never drink without God drinking together with me – and he's always telling me when to stop."

And really, none of them had been drunk.

It had been a nice gathering, there had been happy conversations, laugher and friendly words – some people had been definitely tipsy, but no one had been really drunk.

There had been a lot of talking about God and Jesus, about the bible, and there had been prayers here and there, but that was nothing that wasn't to be expected amongst people such as these.

A knock on his door made him looking up, frowning, because he didn't expect visitors – and especially not at such an hour, nor during his holidays.

"Come on, Northman, open that door of yours." Wohehiv's voice came from the other side of the door. "I know you're in there, Gilbert told me you got your coffee and the newspaper and locked yourself in your room."

"I've not locked myself in." He growled, opening the door.

"Good morning, professor." The Indian smiled at him. "Come on, get ready, it's time for breakfast."

"Thank you, no." He huffed, knowing where exactly the man was planning to take him.

"You're coming for breakfast, and I'll take over a shift in hospital next summer holidays." Wohehiv chuckled, clearly having known his answer.

"Why should I agree to that?" He asked. They were both working overtime hours during those summer months and sometimes they were even sleeping in the hospital because there was no other doctor available for shift duty. In other words, Wohehiv – just as he himself – was present at the hospital for 24/7 during this time anyway.

"Because you'd have eight hours for sleep." The Cheyenne laughed. "Imagine, in the thick of it, you're overtired, exhausted, over-worked …"

"Knowing you, you won't stop nagging me before I didn't agree with accompanying you to this bloody church of yours, correct?" He asked, defeated.

"Absolutely correct, Professor." Wohehiv laughed. "Come on, let's go. Gwyn has brought freshly baked bread and Kayleigh has prepared coffee and tea."

"Very well." He sighed. "If only I get a decent cup of coffee instead of this brewage here."

"You will." Wohehiv nodded, happy that he had inclined so quickly.

He wouldn't have, generally.

But seeing that he was stuck here, and seeing that the brewage they called coffee here at the motel was a horrible brewage, he could either go to the bakery, to the coffee shop, to Pop's soda shoppe, or to the church – even though he wouldn't really call it a church, as he didn't know of any church where they would celebrate feasts such as the one they'd been celebrating last night, nor having breakfast or coffee parties – and as each of these places meant he'd had to deal with people, it didn't really matter where he went to. In other words, he just as well could accompany Wohehiv who had asked him to come to the church for breakfast.

Not that he was someone who generally answered to the wishes of the people around him. Surely not. He'd rather say 'no' with a smirk on his face just to annoy the other. But Wohehiv was more than just any other – as was Hendrik.

He wouldn't go as far as calling them friends, but they were more than just colleagues.

"Of course you'd do something like that." He murmured when they approached the church building.

"What?" Wohehiv asked, clearly not understanding.

"These bloody red and green things you've decorated the building with." He growled.

"What is it with Christmas and you, Hereweald?" The Indian asked, and he sighed. "Too cold for you?"

"Surely not." He answered, huffing at the Cheyenne, ignoring the black haired man nearby that was looking strangely at him. "I have Norway blood in my veins, Indian, and surely I won't be freezing upon a few degrees below zero."

"Then what is it – _Northman_?" The other asked, emphasizing his father country – even though he'd never been there. But well, Norway was the land of his ancestors, and he could feel the northern blood running through his veins. So, he did think of it as his father country.

"It is the snow, Hawkeye." He shook his head.

"What's with the snow, Hrothgar?" The Cheyenne asked. "I like it."

"It's white!" The man growled, a deep feral growl, and for a moment he wondered if he should sneer at the stranger that stood there, gawking at him for another moment before turning and walking on. "It is white, and it is fluffy! Who, in his right mind, would make white and fluffy snow? Couldn't your God have made black and hard, solid snow instead of white and fluffy? And then all those colours! Red and gold and green … and all the unbearable sweetness of Christmas! I'd celebrate it if it were all black and cold and sour, hard and unkind – but this … no! I refuse partaking in something as fluffy and unbearably sweet and happy like Christmas … and that is final! You might celebrate it as long as you wish, each and every day for all I care, but I refuse doing that!"

"Good morning, Professor." Mrs. McFlaherty called over from the counter the moment they entered.

"Good morning, Wohehiv." Cameron waved them over. "Hereweald."

"Had I known that Chandler's here, too, then I wouldn't have come." He growled, even though he knew that it wasn't true, because he'd known that – most likely – Chandler would be present at an occasion like that. But he, Hereweald, was here, against his will, and he needed at least some things he could be venting against. Anyway he followed the Cheyenne over to the table.

"Professor." Michael said, sitting down at the table they were approaching, too, and inviting him to take a seat beside him. "It's good to see you again."

"How so?" He asked, glaring at the man while sitting down. He was to sit down anyway, so he could just as well sit beside this man, not to mention that there were some people who didn't seem to be soft and weak pantywaists like the others. One was Wohehiv, one was Lafayette, and one definitely was Michael – and Gabe. They all seemed to be more than met the eye. They seemed to have a strong heart, the heart of a warrior – of a true warrior.

"You are a strong man, Professor, and you're burning for your beliefs, never mind what they are." Michael calmly said. "You're ready to fight for that what you hold high. Now, what do you think, Professor, how much you'd be burning, and how much you'd be fighting for God if you believed in Him?"

For a moment he didn't know if he should start laughing, or if he should strangle the guy – but seeing that he was Hereweald Hrothgar, and that Hereweald Hrothgar didn't start laughing, he guessed that the strangling thing was the better solution.

"We've had this discussion already." He said. "And I see no reason as to why we should hold it anew. It would be time wasted."

"Everything is possible with God." Michael said and he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes – because that was another thing Hereweald Hrothgar wouldn't do. "Even you starting to walk your ways together with God."

"Even a defect watch shows the correct time twice a day." He huffed at the man. "There's no miracle necessary for that."

"Well, in this case there's no need for you to wind up your fob watch." Michael smiled, taking a slice of bread from the basket Mrs. McFlaherty had put on the tables. "If you would hand me the butter, please."

"Why would I keep my watch from functioning?" He asked, handing the man the butter and he had to admit that the bread smelled good – and that the coffee was good, too.

"That wouldn't make sense, would it?." Michael shrugged his shoulders. "Even though your watch would show the correct time twice a day if you didn't wind it up, it wouldn't make sense to not winding it up because you want to know the correct time whenever you take a look. Now, nearly every person, even an atheist, is calling after God once or twice in their lives. But for us, who we belief in God's existence and in his power, for us it makes no sense to walk together with him once in our lives only, nor once in a year, a month, a week – not even once a day is enough for us. We want to go with him all the time and we see His miracles day, for day, for day. Ten thousand reasons to thank Him we have each and every day."

Alright.

He'd known that it's been a mistake, coming here.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Emily Chandler**

"Really, Emily, dear – I've never thought I'd see that man in a church." Violet chuckled, happily sipping her tea.

Looking over at the table where Michael, Wohehiv and Professor Hrothgar were sitting, she smiled before she looked back at Violet and Rose Montgomery.

"You know the Professor?" She asked, curiously.

She'd been smiling when Wohehiv had told Michael and Gabe that he'd go to get – _'that old and cranky professor'_. Strange, really, how everyone seemed to know that man from Whitechapel Mount, the professor from Hathaway and the colleague of her brother-in-law. Everyone except of her.

"Of course, dear." Rose said, laying her hand over her forearm. "Hereweald is the chemistry professor at Hathaway, and I am the chemistry teacher at New Heaven's High. Of course we'd know each other, we're meeting at the yearly chemists' conference, and we're meeting at the yearly conference for academics in a lectureship position."

Well, somehow this dark and harsh chemistry professor held her fascination, she couldn't deny that. The man had to be older than she was. Most likely about ten or even fifteen years older than she was, but – she wasn't a child anymore. She was thirty-five years old, after all, and so she didn't see anything despicable in her fascination. Not to mention that just because she was fascinated by the man, didn't mean that she started flirting with him, nor that she would start anything else with him.

She was just – fascinated … that was all, and surely nothing to worry about.

"You know, that man has always held a place in my heart." Violet told her, patting her arm, too, and she looked at the woman, startled – and with a strangely stinging feeling in her heart.

Violet Montgomery …

Did that mean that she better kept her eyes – and her mind – off the dark Professor?

But … she was …

Yes, she was fascinated by the professor, by his stern and weathered face, the deep wrinkles between his brows that gave him the impression of being a constantly irritated man, by the dark and harsh eyes that seemed cold and uncaring, and by the prominent chin that spoke of a strong man who knew what he wanted – and who knew how to get what he wanted – not to mention by the scar that ran over the left side of his face while she wondered how the man had got it.

She was fascinated by the man's deep and velvet voice, dark and cold, using a tone of voice that underlined the coldness and his sarcasm, using speech that seemed old fashioned, somehow, while even with his voice this man seemed to bend the rules of speech and grammatic to his will, the rules of period and comma being void in the presence of this man.

And she was fascinated by his dressing code, as if he came straight from the 19th century, the black dress coat buttoned up to his chin with only the white stiff collar and the white shirtsleeves being seen, the many small buttons of the dress coat being covered with the black fabric, and somehow she wasn't sure if the man was wearing a travelling cloak, or his teaching robes, both things which were so very old fashioned, she'd been already fascinated when she'd seen him for the first time.

The entire man radiated danger and menace, unkindness and cruelty, mysteries and secrets. But she'd also learned to know the other side of the man. Intelligence, politeness, and an integrity that she valued very much. She'd learned to know that the man was thoughtful and caring, understanding even, and he bore manners and dignity …

And suddenly she realized that it was more, that it was more than just fascination.

She'd met him just once, two nights ago when Cameron had brought him home for dinner, but already she was …

"Emily, dear." Violet's voice came through the haze that swirled through her mind. "Are you dreaming?"

"What … no, no … sorry." She stammered, blinking in clear confusion. Had she really been daydreaming? She was a thirty-five year old woman, for God's sake! And that man wasn't even believing in God, just by the way!

"You have been daydreaming, dear." Violet said, smiling, the older woman's eyes following her own eyes, and suddenly the smile got deeper and brighter when they found the source of her daydreaming, causing her to blush in what had to be a deep red. "You have a crush on the Professor, Emily, dear."

"A crush …" She still stammered. "No … surely not."

"Ah, don't deny it, love." Rose laughed. "It's obvious."

"And don't worry, dearie." Violet shook her head. "When I said that the Professor has always had a place in my heart – he's too young for me. I'm sixty years old while he's forty-two, after all."

"He looks older." She said, her mind elsewhere while she was looking back to where Professor Hrothgar was sitting.

Forty-two. So he was only seven years older than she was. His old fashioned behaviour and clothing didn't do any good when it came to the man's age, really, even though it added to his mysterious appearance.

"That he does." Violet nodded her head. "He's marked by a life that was – and still is – anything but easy, and most of his sometimes very strange and annoying peculiarities are protective mechanisms."

"Then you're not … I mean …" She started, not really sure if it was the right thing, not really sure if she even wanted to get closer to the dark man, not even sure if she wanted any other man after Julien had died so many years ago – damn, right now she wasn't even sure about anything at all.

"Of course not." The woman laughed. "I've had a crush on our dear professor, many years ago. But like I said, not only is he too young for my liking, but also – I have no inclination of being together with any man. I'm living together with Rose, and that is enough for the both of us."

"Oh …" She made, not really sure what else she could say. But then –

"Emily?" Cameron asked, having approached them with a cup of coffee in his hand and sitting down at their table – and it was clear that he'd heard Violet's last comment. "Is there something I should know about?"

"What …?" She gasped, blinking stupidly and her heart beating furiously.

 _'Please, Lord, please, don't let Cameron know about that!'._ She couldn't help thinking, because … her brother-in-law would surely not understand how she could look after another man after Julien had died, and what if Jethro learned of it? Both men had loved their little brother and she didn't want to hurt them with …

"Emily?" Cameron asked, again. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes." She quickly answered, forcing her eyes off the table where the Hereweald Hrothgar was sitting, huffing at something Michael had just said. "Of course. And no, there's absolutely nothing _anyone_ should know about."

Anyway, Cameron was looking over at the dark professor sitting at a table on the other side of the large room, his face calm and his eyes thoughtful, and it was clear that he hadn't bought her negation.

"Didn't you ask Jethro and Walter to come for breakfast?" She asked, hoping that she'd get her brother-in-law off the topic – and hoping that the two women wouldn't say something wrong.

"Walter's still not through the woods." Cameron said. "His fever is down a bit, but he's still coughing and Jethro won't risk anything."

"Understandable." She nodded her head.

"It's really a good thing that Jethro has taken the boy in." Rose said, leaning back in her chair. "He's in my chemistry class, and he's a really good boy. I cannot fathom how his parents had put him at that school. He's anything but a difficult child and he's really gifted when it comes to chemistry."

"I'm sure that Hereweald would tell different." Cameron laughed and she could feel how her heart was back to beating faster and deeper at the mentioning of the man's name – in other words, yes, she seemed to have a clear interest in the man. "How often has he complained about the students' inability when it comes to his profession."

"I know of no other professor who has a standard as high as Hereweald's." Rose nodded her head. "But the students that come out of his curse in the end, are experts themselves."

"Does that justify his exaggerated severity?" Cameron asked, his eyebrow lifted.

Did it?

She didn't know.

But she didn't really care either.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between snow and ice …**

 _Chapter eight_ _: a meeting with the dead …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	8. one riddle solved

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading …

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Added author's notes:**

This first chapter, the foreword, might give away the impression that the story might be a biography – _it is not_. I have only written it so that you might know, not all of what happens in a book is fiction. There are things which are very much reality for some people and even though the story in the book might be playing at a different place and to a different time, for different persons – sometimes part of it might be real for some people anyway, never mind if it is the story of one particular person, if it is the story of a nation, or if it is the story of how God can work miracles in people.

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smurge, bring brown rings caused by your coffeecup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _"Emily?" Cameron asked, having approached them with a cup of coffee in his hand and sitting down at their table – and it was clear that he'd heard Violet's last comment. "Is there something I should know about?"_

 _"What …?" She gasped, blinking stupidly and her heart beating furiously._

 _'Please, Lord, please, don't let Cameron learn about that!'. She couldn't help thinking, because … her brother-in-law would surely not understand how she could look after another man after Julien had died, and what if Jethro learned of it? Both men had loved their little brother and she didn't want to hurt them with …_

 _"Emily?" Cameron asked, again. "Are you alright?"_

 _"Yes, yes." She quickly answered, forcing her eyes off the table where Hereweald Hrothgar was sitting, huffing at something Michael had just said. "Of course. And no, there's absolutely nothing anyone should know about."_

 _Anyway, Cameron was looking over at the dark professor sitting at a table on the other side of the large room, his face calm and his eyes thoughtful, and it was clear that he hadn't bought her negation._

 _"Didn't you ask Jethro and Walter to come for breakfast?" She asked, hoping that she'd get her brother-in-law off the topic – and hoping that the two women sitting beside her wouldn't say something wrong._

 _"Walter's still not through the woods." Cameron said. "His fever is down a bit, but he's still coughing and Jethro won't risk anything."_

 _"Understandable." She nodded her head._

 _"It's really a good thing that Jethro has taken the boy in." Rose said, leaning back in her chair. "He's in my chemistry class, and he's a really good boy. I cannot fathom how his parents had put him at that school. He's anything but a difficult child and he's really gifted when it comes to chemistry."_

 _"I'm sure that Hereweald would tell different." Cameron laughed and she could feel how her heart was back to beating faster and deeper at the mentioning of the man's name – in other words, yes, she seemed to have a clear interest in the man. "How often has he complained about the students' inability when it comes to his profession."_

 _"I know of no other professor who has a standard as high as Hereweald's." Rose nodded her head. "But the students that come out of his curse in the end, are experts themselves."_

 _"Does that justify his exaggerated severity?" Cameron asked, his eyebrow lifted._

 _Did it?_

 _She didn't know._

 _But she didn't really care either._

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter eight – one riddle solved**

 **Or – family bonds**

 **December 21** **st** **, 1939, Thursday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Dunstan**

At one point or another during the feast last night Denim Sanchez had suggested that they met the other morning for breakfast, and as the two brothers weren't seen in the small valley too often, people had agreed to that, being happy to have the two around during the Christmas days – and for a few days longer. Gwyneth McFlaherty and Mariah Roberts had said they'd bring bread, Victor Almond has agreed to bring cold cuts and Isaiah Cane had promised to bring eggs and milk – and so Michael had called him earlier, asking him to come over for breakfast.

He didn't really know what to make of the man. Michael was alright, and since last summer the man seemed to seek his friendship as well as Jean's and Jethro's. Not that he was running after them, asking them to become his friends – surely not. Someone like Michael didn't have to stand for that, on the contrary. Michael was well-liked by everyone. But somehow this man seemed to have befriend especially those who didn't believe in God, trying to change their minds.

Well, it wasn't his business what people believed in, so he didn't have a problem with Michael's beliefs, nor with Gabe's or with Sebastién's. He just didn't understand it, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't follow an invitation, even if that meant he had to visit church once in a while. It wasn't too bad a place, after all.

Not to mention that – he'd had his miracle.

He wasn't really completely convinced, but God had shown him his miracle already.

When he'd led him here, after Joshua had died.

When he'd led him to meet Jean, God had shown him his miracle and he'd met Jesus – for a short moment only, but he'd met him.

 **Flashback**

 _Sighing he pictured his friend in his mind – and suddenly there was something, just somewhere behind his awareness, definitely there but too far gone to grasp it, too far away to realize what exactly it was. He strained his eyes to see better, narrowing them, and finally he could see – a young man was approaching him, slowly coming close, and he frowned – because he knew that this young man couldn't be real, that he only existed somewhere within his mind._

 _In other words, it was an imagination and already he was about to turn, to relax his eyes and to concentrate on the presence, when the young man – whom he didn't even know – started talking to him._

 _"Wait a moment." The guy said and he actually did, focusing his mind back on the person._

 _"Who're you?" He asked._

 _"You know who I am, Dunstan." The guy said and he frowned, because no – he didn't. And how on earth did that guy know his name?_

 _"I'm Jesus." The guy said, and now he nearly laughed._

 _"Listen, I've never been an overly religious guy and I'm not planning to become one anytime soon." He said – 'said' in some strange way, because he knew that he didn't really speak, that he spoke with that guy in his mind only, just like he was seeing him in his mind only._

 _"That's a good thing, actually." Jesus answered, smiling, and he didn't understand, but then he shrugged his shoulders. What did he care about a guy in his mind who called himself Jesus? But then –_

 _"Go to New Heaven's Valley." The guy said, as if it were the most normal thing to send people someplace._

 _"What would I do there?" He asked._

 _"You'll know the moment you're there." His imagination answered, calmly, smiling at him as if – well, as if he'd done the most normal thing in the world, and as if he was sure that he, Dunstan, would really do what he'd told him to do._

 **End flashback**

Yes, God had given him a miracle.

And yes, he'd seen Jesus.

He wasn't completely convinced – but God _had_ given him a miracle.

And now? What was happening right now? Just before his very nose? He didn't really understand what had just happened.

The blizzard had ceased, finally, only soft snow falling silently peacefully, and he'd been on his way to the church, answering to Michael's invitation when he'd seen two men approaching the church, too, Wohehiv and a stranger, and he'd been just about to say hello the moment the stranger had said something to Wohehiv.

"Of course you'd do something like that." The man had said and he'd looked over at the dark and deep voice of the man, cold and harsh, but strangely known to him.

"What?" Wohehiv had asked, clearly not understanding, and he hadn't either.

"These bloody red and green things you've decorated the building with." The man had growled, and taking a second look he'd furrowed his brows in concentration – because the entire man had seemed strangely known to him.

"What is it with Christmas and you, Hereweald? Too cold for you?" The Indian had asked, and he had lowered his head to one side, frowning, listening, glad that they hadn't seen him yet. It hadn't been that he'd had intended on listening to the two men – it had just been happening. And now that the name Hereweald had been fallen … there weren't too many people bearing that name, and really, that black haired guy with his deep black, harsh and cold eyes, he could have been …

But Hereweald was dead!

He'd seen his father's declaration of his brother's death.

"Surely not." This man, called Hereweald, had answered, huffing at the Cheyenne. "I have Norway blood in my veins, Indian, and surely I won't be cold upon a few degrees below zero."

"Then what is it – _Northman_?" Wohehiv had asked, emphasizing the man's homeland, even though he'd known that – if it had indeed been Hereweald, Hereweald Llewellyn Hrothgar – then he'd never been there, then he'd been born in Tonopah, in Nevada, just like he, Dunstan, had.

"It is the snow, Hawkeye." The man had shook his head.

"What's with the snow, Hrothgar?" The Cheyenne had asked, and he, Dunstan, had nearly held his breath, because it really had been … it had been Hereweald Hrothgar, it had been his brother. "I like it."

"It's white!" The man had growled, a deep feral growl, the man's eyes falling on him, cold, hard black eyes glaring at him and he had inclined his head in way of greeting before turning his face away and simply walking on, passing the two. "It is white, and it is fluffy! Who, in his right mind, would make white and fluffy snow? Couldn't your God have made black and hard, solid snow instead of white and fluffy? And then all those colours! Red and gold and green … and all the unbearable sweetness of Christmas itself! I'd celebrate it if it were all black and cold and sour, hard and unkind – but this … no! I refuse partaking in something as fluffy and unbearably sweet and happy like Christmas … and that is final! You might celebrate it as long as you wish, each and every day for all I care, but I refuse doing that!"

The man's voice had become softer and softer as he'd walked on, bringing distance between the two, until it had ceased to silence, but the words spoken had echoed in his mind, not leaving him alone.

 _"What is it with Christmas and you, Hereweald? Too cold for you?"_

 _"It is the snow, Hawkeye."_

 _"What's with the snow, Hrothgar?"_

 _"It's white! And it's fluffy! Who in his right mind would make white and fluffy snow? Couldn't your God have made black and hard, solid snow instead of white and fluffy?"_

Aside from the little fact that Wohehiv had used the man's name, Hereweald Hrothgar, and aside from the little fact that when he'd looked, he'd thought that it could be Lew, the dark hair, the dark eyes, and the dark appearance, the dark voice – aside from everything, had he not just a few days ago thought that … his brother would agree with him if only he were alive?

 **Flashback**

 _It was strange, really!_

 _And he was frustrated!_

 _Never before had he done something like that – and he knew that he was late in doing what he was doing right now anyway – anyone else had already finished their preparations weeks ago, on the first Sunday in Advent while he was still busy with hanging angels and balls in different colors at the tree Jean had brought last Sunday._

 _If there were black balls for the tree – that would be alright with him._

 _And if there were black angels for the tree – that would be alright with him, too._

 _If the snow outside would be … black … that would be even better than the black balls and angels._

 _He'd deal with the coldness of winter, really, no trouble there – but who in God's name, had come up with white snow? And then all that red and gold trash people used for decorations! And that fluffy, fleecy, soft, candy and sweet thingy that was … Christmas itself!_

 _It was just horrible._

 _If everything were cold and hard and black, then he'd like it much better, and he'd be able dealing with that most horrifying of all holidays much better, really – but white snow? And colorful balls? Golden angels?_

 _And really, if his brother – not his twin but his older brother – were alive still, then he'd surely agree with him, too._

 **End flashback**

But Lew was alive.

Ken would have loved it, the white snow and the golden angels. But not Lew.

And now Lew was alive.

And Lew was here, here in New Heaven's Valley.

But what was he to do now?

 _"Go to New Heaven's Valley."_

 _"What would I do there?"_

 _"You'll know the moment you're there."_

Jesus had known!

And he'd sent him here!

But what was he to do here?

He couldn't just …

How could he …

And for a moment panic threatened to overwhelm him, threatened to drown him, to pull him down into a dark spiral of nothingness, of darkness and coldness …

He'd always thought that his brothers were dead, both of them. He'd known that Kenrich was dead, he'd been there for his burial, hidden behind a tree, but … he'd always thought that he was the last of their house … and he'd hidden himself away …

How could he now go and …

No, he couldn't.

He couldn't go and speak to Lew … he couldn't go and give up his status as a dead … he couldn't go and … he'd worked so hard to support the rumour of being dead … he'd … damn …

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Timmy Sanchez**

"Good morning, Sébastien." He said, happily when – finally – arriving at the church. He'd left uncle Diesel's house to go to the church for breakfast, because uncle Harley and uncle Denim had told him last night that there would be breakfast at the church today, and he'd planned to come here right away, but then he'd met Mr. Cane.

Mr. Cane, the farmer who'd brought eggs for breakfast, had called after him when he'd run along American Chestnut Avenue.

"Wanna earn a dollar?" The man had asked and he'd quickly nodded his head, because a dollar was a lot of money. Imagine what he could do with it. He could buy that woollen blanket for uncle Diesel because he was always cold in the night. Or he could buy that alarm clock for Finn. From spring to fall Finn's father was working on the fields, and he left the house at five in the morning so that he was there at six because he had to walk – and Finn often came too late to school because he was oversleeping as no one was there to wake him. Or he could buy a belt for Patrick so that he wouldn't always have to pull up his Jeans, because Patrick had to wear the old and used clothing from his older brother.

"Well, then run to the stationery, and ask Mrs. Mason to plug my farm and call my wife." Mr. Cane had said. "Tell her to bring the milk I've forgot – and tell her to take the tractor."

"Alright." He'd said, already turning to run off when the man stopped him and put the dollar in his hand already.

Well, and that was the reason as to why he was late for breakfast, nearly fearing that there wouldn't be something left, but there was plenty of bread left, and butter, too, eggs and milk and cornflakes – in other words, he'd taken a plate, filling it to the brim with bread, cold cuts and scrambled eggs, and he'd taken a glass with milk, too.

"You seem hungry." Sébastien said, smiling, pulling back the chair beside him and he balanced his plate and the glass with milk around the chair and onto the table-top.

"Sure I am." He said.

He liked Sébastien.

The man was polite, always. He was nice, kind and very thoughtful of others – and he definitely was walking closer with God than most others did. There were some who were scared of Sébastien, like Lily Henson, or like Finn Abrahamsen, saying that he was scary. But Angus McFlaherty and Gabe Heavensville, too, said that Sébastien was alright. Really, he wasn't scarier than was Michael or Doc Hrothgar whom he'd met last year at Whitechapel Mount Hospital – and he liked both, he couldn't help thinking, chuckling while waving happily over at the Doc who was sitting together with Doc Wohehiv.

"What?" Sébastien asked, watching him curiously.

"I've just couldn't help thinking that I like Doc Hrothgar." He said, smiling. "But he doesn't like it that I like him."

"Of course he doesn't." Sébastien said, chuckling too. "But as far as I know, he's not a Doc but a Professor, he's teaching chemistry at Hathaway."

"Hmm." He nodded his head. "That's why he wasn't there after the holidays when I looked."

He'd been running over to the man last night, during the dinner party, when he'd been standing together with Wohehiv, talking, and he'd hugged the man's waist – causing him to look down at him with a face that looked as if he'd bit into a lemon before his face had become neutral again, only his left eyebrow being raised in disapproval – and just now, when he'd waved over at the man, he'd been glaring back, in clear disapproval again, as if to say _'you don't do that, young man, it's not done'_.

So – yes, he knew that the Professor wasn't too happy about _him_ liking him.

He didn't really care about that.

"Maybe I should buy a bible for the Professor?" He mused, looking up at Sébastien. "For Christmas."

"Why not buying one for Diesel?" The man asked, and he thought over it for a moment before he shook his head.

"I think not." He then said, sighing. "Uncle Diesel would burn it the moment he unpacked it."

"Do you think that the Professor would act different?" Sébastien asked, and again he thought over the question for a moment.

"Sure." He then said. "It's a book, and if he's a Professor, then he won't destroy books. Maybe he wouldn't right out read it, but he wouldn't destroy it either."

"Do you have an own bible, Timmy?" Sébastien then asked, and he shook his head. Of course he didn't have one, but he could always borrow one from the church, and he always listened close to the sermons, and to when the other children were studying the bible, and he often discussed with Gabe and Angus about the bible.

Angus was eleven years old only, but he'd got his bible the moment he'd learned reading. He'd been working at home, helping his mother with washing the dishes, and cleaning the floors and the bathroom, and he'd helped her mom in the garden, too, until Mrs. McFlaherty had asked him what he wanted.

He'd then asked her for a bible, and she'd immediately agreed. Just a few days later Angus had had his bible, and since that day he'd been reading in it day for day. Surely the other boy would know it by heart by now. He'd read in the bible at a daily basis too, if only he had one.

"I'll go and get one for the professor." He nodded his head. "He won't destroy it."

"You know what?" Sébastien asked and he looked over at the man. "I could need some help with freeing the driveway in front of my house from all that snow of the last few days."

"Alright." He said, leaning back in his chair. He'd wanted to get some cornflakes, too, but now he'd had enough, and he'd long ago learned to better not eat more than what his stomach could take or he'd get stomach-aches and as uncle Diesel didn't really care about that, he better showed some sense and stopped eating before that happened. "When shall I start?"

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Michael**

"They are so weak." He sighed, looking around. "They are praying to the Lord, expecting Him to answer to their whims and woes, and they are singing a few songs and think they worship Him. They are reading in the bible and think they study His word, and they are talking about Him and think they knew Him."

"Do they not?" Gabriel asked, the man's blue eyes on him, seriously.

"Of course they don't!" He growled. "They are praying – but do they really trust in the Lord? Are they able to sleep through a storm on the sea? They read in the bible, but do they really know our Lord's words by heart so that they can answer with His words instead of looking for logical or psychological reasons? They experience a miracle once in a while, but do they really know our Lord's power and his greatness?"

"Of course not." Gabriel shook his head. "You cannot compare them with us, Michael."

"They are not even trying." He answered.

"They do." Gabriel sighed. "They do, Michael. Give them a sword and they will yield it, taking risk of being hit by their enemies – just like you do."

"And they would die in the process." He huffed.

"Of course they would." Came Gabriel's answer. "And they know it, but that knowledge is not keeping them from trying. We are living for thousands of years now, Michael, and we are the first ones. We have got so much more strength and power than they have – how can they be comparable to us? They are small children in the Lord's eyes, and how could small children not be weak? How could they do no mistakes? Do not judge them, Michael, because it is not your place to judge them."

"No, but I am to defend them." He said. "I am to defend those weak creatures."

"An honourable mission." Gabriel inclined his head.

"I am to defend these children instead of leading my army into a war against Lucifer that would extinguish him once and for all." He complained. " _That_ should be my task. Am I not the highest leader of our Lord's army? The Captain of all of God's warriors? Would we not die fighting against Satan and his hordes?"

"Of course you are." Gabriel chuckled and he glared at the other archangel. "And of course you would. But that doesn't change anything. You are one of the most honourable angels amongst God's angels, the one angel who would happily go and fight against Lucifer himself, alone if you must, they never could. Do not compare them to us, because they are doing their very best, and God is seeing their hearts, not their works."

"I know that." He huffed. Of course he knew. But that didn't change the little fact that he was stuck here, waiting to defend a small town instead of fighting his fallen brother. Not to mention that he didn't know when he had to come to action – it could take years he had to spend here for all he knew.

Of course time wasn't important to him.

The Lord had created them, the angels, before the foundation of the world had been set – and that meant that their life existed outside of time itself, because time and space were characteristics of this world, not of the Lord's world who isn't limited by hours, days and years. They could travel in time and space as the Lord sent them, and …

No, they really were not comparable with men.

"I have to go." He said, knowing that there was someone needing his help, and he left back a smiling Gabriel.

It was in the blink of an eye that he found himself again in front of the door that led into the house of Dunstan Black and Jean McIory, and he knocked at the door.

He'd seen McIory up there on that Mountain, and he'd seen Dunstan too, up there, running into the burning woods filled with demons to safe two children, just like he'd seen Jethro Chandler fighting up there on that burning Mountain, fighting those demons with his axe, and he knew that these three would fit well into his army – if only they were no men.

But they were, and they'd never survive the first battle.

But, what could they change if only they believed, if only they fought for their Lord.

"You knew." Dunstan accused the moment he opened his door.

"I knew what?" He asked, his eyebrow lifted at the man.

"Hereweald." Dunstan said, and he nodded his head.

"Your brother." He simply stated.

"You knew!" Dunstan accused once more, turning to step into the house and making room in the doorway for him to step in, too.

"Yes, and no." He said. "I did not know of him before I first saw him, but the moment I first saw him, I did indeed know that he is your brother. Neither of you can deny the other, you're too much alike in appearance, in speech, and in the choice of your words. How can one not notice you being brothers?"

"But what do I do now?" The man asked, looking at him nearly desperately. "What do I do now?"

"What do you think you are supposed to do?" He asked back, filling some tea leaves into the kettle with water the man had standing on the stove, and he took two cups from the board, bringing everything over to the kitchen table where Dunstan was sitting, his head put into his hands.

"Listen." He said, sitting down. "You have found your brother – and you should be happy about it. Go and talk to him. You are not the last of the Hrothgar house – and neither is he. You should rid the both of you from that misconception."

"The Hrothgar house has ceased to a dying house long ago." Dunstan said, looking up at him. "Our father had been the only male Hrothgar left from a house that had once been a great house. Kenrich is dead, I've been on his memorial. And as far as I can tell, neither Hereweald nor I have children and we are not the youngest. Our time is limited. We both will be the last – so, really, how important is it that actually I talk with him?"

"It is very important, Dunstan Hrothgar, because he is your brother, and because he defines who you are while you define who he is." He said, pouring tea into both cups and reaching one over at the other man. "You are Dunstan Hrothgar, not Dunstan Black. Your heritage is the Hrothgar house, as is his. And concerning children – Abraham sired Isaac when he was ninety-nine years old. The Hrothgar Imperium might yet not be lost. Do not give up on God's plans so easily."

"You might know about God's plans." Dunstan said, and he huffed at the man.

Few people knew that he was an angel, that he was indeed an archangel.

Little Angus McFlaherty knew, and Wohehiv as well as Jethro Chandler knew. He had the feeling that Sébastien Lafayette knew, too, even though they had never talked about that, but Lafayette had seen him fighting the demons last summer just like _he'd_ seen the other man fighting the demons, and just like _he_ knew that Lafayette was anything but a simple man, so Lafayette knew that he, Michael, was anything but a simple man, either … and most likely, Lafayette also knew that he wasn't even an ordinary angel, but which angel, which archangel, he was exactly.

And of course Gabriel knew – but other than these people, it was unknown to the rest of the small town – at least that was what he was hoping for.

"You could have prevented that." Dunstan suddenly accused, again. "You're a follower of God, after all! And you could have prevented him from turning up at church this morning."

"I could have, yes." He admitted. "But only if my Lord had told me to, what he did not do."

"You are not asking him what you should eat for breakfast or dinner!" Dunstan said, trying to find anything that would make him feeling better.

"Of course not, because it is not important." He answered. "In the small things I am going on in life with a common sense, an open mind and knowing the Lord's requirements – and even if I took a piece of grape and the Lord told me not to eat it, I would not … but doing any of the big things would mean messing around with the Lord's works, and that is an absolute no-go."

"You can talk!" Dunstan growled at him, angrily.

"Why is it that you are so reluctant of meeting your brother?" He asked, not really understanding human ways of thinking – or feeling. He would be happy to meet a new brother, or a brother he'd thought lost long ago.

"How should I know?" The man angrily attacked, but he knew that it was not to hurt him, but to make himself feel better, to vent some of his frustration. "You're the angel. And don't deny it, I know that you are!"

Well, that much for Dunstan not knowing that he was an angel, and for a moment he wondered how many people more might know about it.

"I have on reason of denying it." He calmly answered. "But that is not the point, Dunstan. The point is – why is it that you are so reluctant of meeting your brother."

"You're not denying it?" The human asked, looking at him perplexed.

"Of course not." He said, again.

"I don't know why." Dunstan finally said, sighing. "I've worked so hard on being dead. Only the family lawyer knows that I am still alive, and for now I've had no reason to … and now Hereweald's here."

"Is it because of the money you would have to share?" He teased, knowing that Dunstan wasn't really thinking like that. The man might be frustrated at the moment, at the knowledge that there was a relative left of him, but surely not because of the money he was to inherit but because he didn't know how to handle the situation.

"What?" Dunstan looked up at him, startled, before he quickly shook his head. "No!" He then said, furrowing his brows. "Of course not! I don't care about that money and I don't even know what to do with it. I just wonder – he must have known that our father has died, why didn't _he_ claim that money? He's the oldest, after all, the firstborn."

"That is a question you should ask your brother." He answered, shrugging his shoulders.

"I have worked so hard on being Dunstan Black, leaving everything Hrothgar behind." Dunstan suddenly whispered, as if he'd surrendered to the situation. "How am I to go back _there_ now?"

"Together with your brother." He answered, calmly and quietly. "Because know, that he is as insecure as you are. He has lost the same as did you. But both of you can gain something, if only you go and talk to him."

"What am I to say?" The man asked, looking up at him with a desperate expression on his face, in his eyes. "Hello I'm your brother, nice to meet you?"

"Why not?" He asked back. "You could use a worse choice of words than that."

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between snow and ice …**

 _Chapter nine_ _: a meeting with a demon – or not? …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	9. brothers indeed

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time it is about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading … to understand how things started in this story, you need to read _'between roses and peppermint'._

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn dorch Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smudge, bring brown rings caused by your coffee cup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _"Of course not, because it is not important." He answered. "In the small things I am going on in life with a common sense, an open mind and knowing the Lord's requirements – and even if I took a piece of grape and the Lord told me not to eat it, I would not … but doing any of the big things would mean messing around with the Lord's works, and that is an absolute no-go."_

 _"You can talk!" Dunstan growled at him, angrily._

 _"Why is it that you are so reluctant of meeting your brother?" He asked, not really understanding human ways of thinking – or feeling. He would be happy to meet a new brother, or a brother he'd thought lost long ago._

 _"How should I know?" The man angrily attacked, but he knew that it was not to hurt him, but to make himself feel better, to vent some of his frustration. "You're the angel. And don't deny it, I know that you are!"_

 _Well, that much for Dunstan not knowing that he was an angel, and for a moment he wondered how many people more might know about it._

 _"I have no reason of denying it." He calmly answered. "But that is not the point, Dunstan. The point is – why is it that you are so reluctant of meeting your brother."_

 _"You're not denying it?" The human asked, looking at him perplexed._

 _"Of course not." He said, again._

 _"I don't know why." Dunstan finally said, sighing. "I've worked so hard on being dead. Only the family lawyer knows that I am still alive, and for now I've had no reason to … and now Hereweald's here."_

 _"Is it because of the money you would have to share?" He teased, knowing that Dunstan wasn't really thinking like that. The man might be frustrated at the moment, at the knowledge that there was a relative left of him, but surely not because of the money he was to inherit but because he didn't know how to handle the situation, because the wealth and power he was to inherit, was more than one man alone could handle anyway._

 _"What?" Dunstan looked up at him, startled, before he quickly shook his head. "No!" He then said, furrowing his brows. "Of course not! I don't care about that money and I don't even know what to do with it. I just wonder – he must have known that our father has died, why didn't he claim that money? He's the oldest, after all, the firstborn."_

 _"That is a question you should ask your brother." He answered, shrugging his shoulders._

 _"I have worked so hard on being Dunstan Black, leaving everything Hrothgar behind." Dunstan suddenly whispered, as if he'd surrendered to the situation. "How am I to go back there now?"_

 _"Together with your brother." He answered, calmly and quietly. "Because know, that he is as insecure as you are. He has lost the same as did you. But both of you can gain something, if only you go and talk to him."_

 _"What am I to say?" The man asked, looking up at him with a desperate expression on his face, in his eyes. "Hello I'm your brother, nice to meet you?"_

 _"Why not?" He asked back. "You could use a worse choice of words than that."_

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter nine – brothers indeed**

 **Or – don't lick the spoon …**

 **December 22** **nd** **, 1939, Friday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Dunstan**

He hadn't slept last night.

He'd been lying in bed, turning from one side to the other, but he hadn't slept, and so he'd gone back to the living room, taking the bible Michael had – _accidentally_ , of course – forgotten at one or another of his visits during the past few months, and he didn't really know what to make out of it. But … the thing was there, all those people out there read it, so he saw no reason as to why he shouldn't take a look at it now. He could go back to bed and turn from one side to the other, or he could open that particular book and read through a few pages.

Well, and when skimming through the first pages, reading through the creation, he couldn't help thinking that he was reading a fantasy book, but when skimming through the proverbs, then he couldn't help finding that there were a lot of truths in them, too, truths he already knew, had heard from others, from people who didn't have anything to do with God, church, or the bible, like the one that said that a man who is kind benefits himself, while a cruel man hurts himself – or this one: _'ponder the path of your feet, then all your ways will be sure'_.

There were a lot of other things he didn't understand – like … how would the tree of knowledge of good and evil be a bad thing? It was a good thing if people knew about good and bad, if people knew what was good and bad, because only that way they could decide to do good and leave the bad stuff. People needed to know the difference between good and bad, so, why had God told Adam and Eve, that they were not to eat of it or they'd die? And why had it had such a catastrophic impact on mankind? He could understand that God might have been angry because they'd done something he had forbidden, but why was it such a bad thing in the first place? He just didn't understand.

But then again, in other parts of the bible he'd skimmed through, he'd found things he'd heard before, again, things he did understand very well, like this one: _'A house divided against itself cannot stand'_ , or – _'to everything there is a season'_ , simply meaning that there is a right time and a wrong time to everything.

Wise and true things he'd heard before, and wise and true things that were logical, which he understood.

So, surely there was something truthful in the bible – but, if there were some things in the bible which were true, then maybe everything was true? Because who would write a book such as this, that was halfway truth and halfway a lie? Sure, there might be some truths in every book, even in fantasy books … maybe … but this book was never meant to be a fantasy book but a guide for mankind, so, what if this story about how God had created the earth was really true?

 _If_ God was almighty, then surely it _could_ be true.

So, he'd started to skim through that book a bit more – and finding a bit more – like the saying that a leopard couldn't change its spots … and he frowned, because he'd never thought that it actually came from the bible, he'd not known that. But there it was written: _'Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?'_ So, people had picked that saying from the bible, really and truly. Or _'let not the sun go down on your wrath'_. His granny used to say this one whenever his parents had been arguing, and they'd been arguing a lot.

In the end, he'd been skimming through that book all night long, back and forth, reading a verse here and a sentence there, finding things he hadn't thought he'd find in a book like the bible, even things like this one – _'and spend the money for whatever you want – oxen or sheep or wine or strong drink, whatever your appetite craves. And you shall feast there and celebrate before the Lord your God and rejoice, you and your household'._

He'd needed to look twice when reading _that_ , and suddenly he understood why people here in New Heaven's Valley didn't shy back from sitting together and having a good time in their church, even drinking alcohol while he had already wondered why good and godly people would do that. They didn't get drunk, but they didn't condemn alcohol either like so many other Christians he'd met over the years did. They were rather handling it with common sense, because they were allowed to do so. Their God didn't forbid them all the things they liked.

And that had been the first moment when there had been a small and soft _'click'_ in his head, someplace in the backside of his mind there had been a small switch that had been turned, and he'd realized that – these people weren't forbidden all the enjoyable things in life. Their God didn't tell them to do the boring stuff only while _'no sex, no excitement and no alcohol'_ like his mother always had said when his older brother had left the house.

But well – neither of the things he'd read did really help him with his current problem – namely what was he to do about his brother? Michael had told him that he should go to his brother and talk to him, and that they should try to answer that question together – and it seemed logical to him. But – what was he to say? And would the man believe him, even? Would he not make a fool out of himself? And what if Hereweald was angry at him because he'd run off in the middle of the night so many years ago? Leaving behind not only Hereweald but worse, his twin, too? What if Hereweald turned his back on him, telling him that he should go to hell?

He wouldn't be able to bear that.

In other words – Michael had been right, partly … he was more interested in himself than in his brother, he was more scared of what his brother could do than of really meeting him and telling him, scared of what he might think, scared of how he might react, scared of – of being rejected.

But … didn't he have to bear the consequences of his decision he'd made so many years ago?

Of course it hadn't been easy, leaving back his twin when he'd left back then, but it had been necessary, because he'd been unable meeting his father again after he'd seen the man doing what he'd done. He'd been unable of looking at the man without seeing a monster, without wanting to kill him for what he'd done. His father had done a lot of things, but that night had been the last straw that had broken and he'd just packed his things and had left. A backpack with a few clothes, a few pictures from his brothers, and a few sandwiches and apples for the start of his journey. That's been all he'd taken with him back then – together with the piggybank where he'd had saved a few dollars, not much, but it had been enough for the first few weeks until he'd had a small job.

But still he had no answer – what was he to do now?

Turning the page, sighing, his eyes fell onto a sentence that made him blinking stupidly for a moment before he read the same sentence again: _'a friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a difficult time'_.

Was he not in a difficult time?

Why else had he been skimming through that book all night long instead of sleeping?

Wasn't that what people did if they were in difficult times?

And now he read that a brother was there for the difficult times …

Was that true? Could that be true for him, too?

If so, then surely …

Taking the book and closing it with an angry and loud 'thud', he threw the bloody thing against the next wall – where it hit the structure with another 'thud' before it fell to the floor, laying on the ground and looking harmless and just like any other normal book – but he knew that it was no normal book, because he had looked inside.

Taking a deep breath he got off the armchair and put on his jacket, because he had to go for a walk, and he had to think, and maybe he had to talk to his brother – maybe.

He ignored the book that lay on the floor, accusingly, because he refused to believe what was in there – because surely that was not meant for him.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Gwyneth McFlaherty**

"Hello Gwyn." Emily said the moment she entered the lobby of the church, and she smiled, happily – she was back home.

"Hi Emily." She answered, giving the other woman a short embrace, and then sat down into one of the chairs, smiling at the cup of coffee the other woman put in front of her – yes, she was back home … this was her church … this was her family … and this was her home …

"Hello Timmy, last Christmas preparations?" She asked the boy, pointing at the present the child was trying to wrap, his tongue sticking out from between his lips with concentration, the child trying to bind the bow so that it wold look somewhat nice and considering the folds in the band, it was clear that it wasn't his first attempt.

"Yes, Mrs. McFlaherty." The boy said, grinning. "I've bought a bible for the Professor, for Professor Hrothgar, and then I got a dollar from Sébastien for clearing his driveway off the snow, and so I could buy another bible. I'll give it to uncle Diesel, and maybe he won't rip it to pieces."

"Oh boy." She said, knowing that – most likely the man would be doing just that.

"I hope he'll come for Christmas, you know." The boy then said, stopping in his work and looking up at her, smiling. "The Professor, I mean. He will leave tonight or tomorrow morning to go home, after sheriff Benson has opened the streets again."

"I don't know." Emily sighed, shaking her head and leaning back in her chair, her eyes elsewhere. "I fear he won't. He's so stubborn when it comes to such things."

"Dunno, Ma'am." The boy said, looking over at the other woman. "I hope he will, I like him, he's scary."

"And you like scary people, Timmy?" She couldn't help asking, smiling at the child.

"Not generally, Mrs. McFlaherty." The boy answered. "But I like him."

"That he is, Timmy." Emily laughed. "Maybe I should get him a Christmas present, too."

"You should, Ma'am." The boy eagerly nodded his head. "Just in case."

"So, you like scary people, too, Emily?" She couldn't help asking, frowning, because … well – if that was not one of the strangest conversations she'd heard, lately, then she didn't know what was. So, what had she missed while she'd been away? After all, she hadn't been gone for a year, but four days only.

"Not generally." The other woman answered, laughing happily. "But I like him, even though he's scary."

"Are you checking him out?" She couldn't help asking, watching Emily closely.

"What?" The other woman quickly asked – too quickly for her liking. "No! Surely not … I …"

"Oh, oh." She smiled. "There is someone interested in the Chemistry Professor from Hathaway …"

"No." Emily shook her head. "No, of course not, you're silly."

"Hmm." She nodded her head, knowingly. "Really, Emily." She then said. "How long is it that Julien died? Ten years? It's nothing wrong to look for another man after that time, there's nothing reprehensive in that. But does it really have to be that eccentric curmudgeon?"

"Even if I laid my eyes on him – what I didn't do – I would never hurt Jethro and Cameron with taking another man. They wouldn't understand, and they would be hurt."

"Sure?" She asked, trying to picture Cameron in this situation. "Cameron loved Julien, as did Jethro, but I don't think that any of the two expect you to remain alone, a widow for the remainder of your life. Julien is dead, Emily, for ten years now. You're not betraying him with another man, you're not committing adultery. Why should you not look for another man in your life after all those years?"

"Because, it's just that – Cameron loved Julien, and Jethro loved him, too." Emily shook her head, watching Gabe and Michael approaching together with Timmy, the boy happily running ahead of the two and into the lobby, straightway towards Timmy where he pulled the other boy off his seat with an anxious "hi Timmy, come, quickly".

"Hi Angus." Timmy answered, big eyed, and packing the bible he'd wrapped into the large box together with the other presents, where Morgan McFlaherty would take them to place them beneath the large Christmas tree tomorrow night.

Tomorrow evening and Sunday morning would be a rather busy time.

People would prepare salads of all kind, they would bake bread and cake, and cookies, they would roast sausages and steaks, and they'd make pudding and other deserts, too, while others would decorate the church with flowers and with the best table cloth, with napkins and with porcelain. They'd put tables together in the entire house, in the lobby and in the service hall for the Christmas dinner, and in the upstairs classrooms for the children to play one game or another in the afternoon.

They'd cook coffee and brew tea, and everyone would bring something to eat on Sunday.

It would be coffee and cake on Sunday after noon while people talked and celebrated Christmas, and there would be one sermon or another during the day, prayers, and people who wished to say a few words could do just that, too, and later in the evening there would be another sermon, dinner, more prayers, and then they'd unwrap the many, many Christmas presents beneath the tall tree in the service hall.

They'd play a game of questions and answers, and the person answering a question the right way, could take a present from beneath the tree, any present, and hand it over to the one it belonged to – who then would be busy unwrapping the present while the person who'd answered the question correctly, would ask another question. It was always fun, celebrating Christmas this way, and no one was alone, no one was left behind, and no one was forgotten.

"Come outside?" Angus whispered, leaning close to Timmy as if he were to tell a big secret. "I have a new nose for Mr. Snowman, and then we could do a snowball fight, Mr. Snowman, Michael, Gabriel and I, and you, too."

"Great." The other boy whispered back, getting his jacket and hurrying outside together with Angus.

"They've given the snowman a name?" Emily asked, smiling, watching the two boys.

"Sure." She shook her head. "After all, Mr. Snowman is a member of this church for years now. Angus has kept Mr. Snowman's things, the top hat, the broom, the eyes and buttons, and only the nose will be new each year. Angus has asked for it this very morning when I got home."

"Well, in this case I liked last year's Mr. Snowman." Emily laughed. "He's been successfully guarding the door. I hope this year's Mr. Snowman will be as nice as was last year's."

"If Michael is involved?" She chuckled. "Then he'll be wearing a sword."

"Most likely." Jethro huffed, having entered the church and hearing her last sentence.

"How did you get home, by the way?" Emily then asked. "The roads are still closed off."

"Mr. Hollister took me on his sledge." She smiled. "It's been an – adventurous ride, but really worth it."

"That's good. How was your time with Mary and her husband?" Cameron then asked, sitting down beside her. "It's really good to have you back."

"I'm happy to be back, too, but it's been one of the most interesting times I've lately had." She smiled.

It had really been a few good days. They had played games, they had talked a lot, and they had taken a walk whenever the storm had ceased a bit and it was safe doing so. They had cooked together, and they had eaten together – but she'd missed her family, Morgan and the children, and she'd missed reading in her bible, and she'd missed the prayers together with other Christians, and she'd wondered how these people could be so happy, even though they didn't have God in their lives.

She'd talked about God, sure, and Mariah had let her talking, not telling her to keep her mouth shut about God or Jesus, even though she had known that both, Mariah and her husband had not cared about what she'd said, but neither was it the same as if she could talk with other Christians, nor had it had any effort, because they'd simply thought her being stupid for believing in God and for telling them, no less.

But other than that, it had been a few nice and interesting days, and she had enjoyed the friendship they had shared.

"That's good to hear." Cameron nodded his head. "Anyway, I'm glad you're back home. Hereweald will soon be going home, too, I guess. Sheriff Benson said he'd reopen the western driveway that will lead to Whitechapel Mount City via the baseball pitch as soon as possible."

"Hmm." Jethro made. "Concerning that Professor – now, what's about going out with him, Emily?" Jethro then growled without forewarning, his hard eyes on his sister who took a deep breath.

"Why would I do something like that?" Emily asked back, blushing, and she frowned, because Emily should really not keep her feelings secret. "I have no …"

"I'm not stupid." Jethro growled. "I've seen the looks you've thrown at him."

"Listen, Emily." Cameron sighed, sitting down beside his sister. "Julien is dead for ten years now and there is nothing wrong with looking for another partner in your life. You are not meant to be alone for the remainder of your life. I just do not really understand how you could look out for such a cantankerous and ill-tempered guy like Hereweald, but if that's what you want, then be it. I just fear that he'll hurt you with turning you down. That man is not made for any kind of relationship."

Well, she couldn't agree more with Cameron – and really, Emily should just try it.

There wasn't anything else to say about the subject, and Cameron started telling her about how well Morgan had done with the children.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

"Hereweald …" He heard his name being called, and for a moment he wondered if he shouldn't just ignore it and walk on, but then he stopped with a resigned sigh, knowing that – most likely – the caller wouldn't give up so easily if they called him by his given name, and he wondered who exactly did show the audacity to use his first name, because he had not given permission for that to _anyone_ at all, not even to Wohehiv and Hendrik who both used his given name anyway. And seeing that Wohehiv had introduced him to the people here in town, using his first name, it was clear that they would use his first name, now, too – in other words … his reputation was destroyed. Utterly and totally destroyed.

He'd never have introduced himself with his forename! Never ever!

Bloody Indian!

And turning, he put on his best glare – and then lifted his eyebrow, because he didn't even know the person.

He'd seen the man before, just the other morning when Wohehiv had dragged him to this church of his for breakfast, the man had walked past them, watching him with a strange expression on his face.

And now the man stood before him, again, watching him, again, and he could tell that there wasn't just a battle going on in the man's mind, but an entire war.

"What is it?" He asked, impatiently, to get the man out of his war. He'd been on his way to – _maybe_ – going home, driving up Whitechapel Mount. The direct serpentine road up the mountain wasn't opened yet due to the thread of one of the ledges coming down, but perhaps he could leave the small town southwards, passing the baseball pitch and then driving up Whitechapel Mount from the northern side, and he better made haste before that idiot sheriff came up with another reason as to why the street had to remain closed.

"You are Hereweald Llewellyn Hrothgar." The man said, his voice raspy.

"Seeing that you have called me by my given name already – one should think I am." He huffed with some annoyance in his voice.

"Well …" The man then said, slowly, taking a deep breath. "My name is Kenrich Dunstan Hrothgar."

Dunstan … he blinked at the man stupidly …

But … surely it couldn't be …

Dunstan was …

It just couldn't be …

But … how was that possible …

"To my knowledge Kenrich Dunstan Hrothgar is dead." He growled.

"Then why have you not called Lawyer Winchester when father died to claim your heritage?" The man – Dunstan – accused, and at least now he knew that the other was really his brother, because … a simple stranger wouldn't know about Lawyer Winchester, and surely not about his father having died or the money he was to inherit.

"I suggest we do not discuss that on the street." He said, taking a deep breath, and turning towards the Coffee House, he walked on. He didn't really want to go to the Coffee House. But the only other option would be to take the other man back to the motel and he wouldn't do that! Or to Pope's Soda Shoppe where all the kids were hanging out, and that was just as unacceptable.

"Sorry Llew." The other man said, following him. "I didn't mean to accuse you of anything."

"Don't call me _that_!" He hissed, angrily.

There wasn't an answer, but he could hear the man's footsteps in the snow following his own.

So – Dunstan was alive.

But why had he not …

And what had he done all those years?

How was he, Hereweald, to handle this situation now? How was he to handle his brother, even?

Why had his brother not come back when Osmond had died? And surely he must have known about it …

There were so many questions rushing through his mind, he barely could grasp one of them to form them into an understandable sentence, and for a moment … but no.

No, he knew that Osmond had died, because he'd died in his arms, bleeding to death because he'd been unable to stop the blood flow, because no one had been there to help him, neither his father nor …

Pushing these thoughts aside, he entered the Coffee House, scanning the area with his dark and hard eyes for a moment, and then he went to a table at the very end of the room.

"Why did you run away back then?" He asked, the moment the other man, his brother, sat down at the table. "And why did you come back now?"

"I have left because of our father." The man, Dunstan, said, apparently knowing that he had to answer some questions. "And I didn't come back just now – I'm living here for some time now, but I didn't know that you're living here, too."

"I'm not living here." He growled, darkly. "I've just been stranded here in that bloody one horse town due to that bloody snow storm, that's all. And do you really think that you've been the only one who'd had to suffer from our father's words and hands? Or from our mother's neglect and disinterest?"

"Of course not." Dunstan said, scowling at him. "But I haven't been the only one who'd run off, either."

"No." He sighed, leaning back and then ordering two cups of coffee from the waitress. "No, you haven't been the only one. But I've only left after Osmond … after our brother had died. I've stayed until that day and I would have stayed until he'd moved out to keep him safe and sane – if that was even possible in that household. I've only left after there had been no reason left for me to remain."

"I know." Dunstan nodded his head, sighing, and looking sad. "Sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I just … I don't know how to handle this." The man then said.

"And you think I do?" He asked back, his black eyes harsh on his brother's black eyes.

"Apparently not." Dunstan said. "I'm really sorry. I've been Dunstan Black for so many years, I don't really know how to go back to being Dunstan Hrothgar."

"Why would you do such a foolish thing?" He asked, startled, not understanding. "And giving up on your family name?"

"Are you proud of being a Hrothgar?" Dunstan asked, glaring at him, and he sighed.

"No, I'm not." He shook his head. "But I _am_ a Hrothgar, and denying it won't change it. I am not responsible for what our father did, I am only responsible for what I am doing."

"What am I to do now?" His brother asked, shaking his head, and suddenly he realized that – yes, this was indeed his little brother, and his little brother needed a bit of help here.

He inclined his head towards the lady who brought the two cups of coffee, and then took a deep breath. It wasn't that he wouldn't need some help here, too – but he was the older of the two, and he was used to situations that grew over his head.

"You take back your family name." He then said, taking the lead just the way he'd do it with the students from his house. He'd deal with his own emotions later. "And concerning the money, I have no interest in it, you may have it, all of it – what is the exact reason as to why I have not contacted lawyer Winchester when father died, just to answer your earlier question. But you, you better make sure that you get back your family name. You are Kenrich Dunstan Hrothgar. You are who you are and changing your name won't change who you are."

"Who are _you_?" The other man asked. "What are you doing now? And where do you live?"

"I am living at Hathaway, up Whitechapel Mount." He growled, darkly. "I'm working as the chemistry teacher up there."

"Chemistry, eh?" Dunstan asked, grinning, and he scowled at the man in front of him.

"You have a problem with that?" He growled at the other man, darkly. Chemistry was his passion, and there was no reason for anyone to make fun of it.

"No." Dunstan shook his head, seriously. "It's just that I've studied chemistry in Virginia at the Scientific University of Nevada."

"Chemistry." He sighed, his eyebrow lifted.

So, the man didn't just have the same hard and black eyes as he had, the same deep and velvet voice, the same long and black hair, and his face didn't just bear the same expressions as did his own, but he had the same interests, too.

Brothers, indeed, he thought and he leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs beneath the table, content with the situation.

It surely wasn't that he'd missed his brother.

It's been nearly twenty-seven years, a time long enough so that he wouldn't miss Dunstan anymore. Not to mention that he was no one who easily missed other persons – they were there, in his life, or they were not, it was as easy as that, because he wouldn't be able to change it anyway, never mind if he missed the person, or not.

No, but something felt right.

Something felt as if it had fallen into place.

Something felt as if it had become the way it had to be.

"So, where have you been?" He asked, taking a sip of his coffee which was – he had to admit that – acceptable brewage for a small town-coffee such as this.

"I've been here and there." Dunstan said, shrugging his shoulders. "I've travelled the states, working here and there, learning this and that, and the moment I've had enough money for the university, I've studied chemistry. For years I've worked at Virginia Police Department as an analytical chemist and I've lived at a big farm, together with friends – until one of them … well, until Joshua died. I've left Hopedale and … came here where I work as a mechanic during the summer months."

"And what about the winter months?" He asked, his eyebrow lifted.

The WMC Garage in Whitechapel Mount City was a garage where he'd had his car once – and once only. They didn't just not know their stuff, no – they also had demolished his car seriously instead of repairing it, and Stormway had to straighten it out. In other words, he knew Norman's Garage, and he also knew that Stormway _sometimes_ had so much work that he needed help, but most of the time too little work for one mechanic, let alone two – or three.

"During the winter months …" His brother said, slowly. "Well, during the winter months I'm driving forty tons over the ice roads of the Barren Ground."

"What a nice job." He sighed. "You have studied chemistry and end up as a mechanic and as a trucker, how very convenient."

"Well – you have studied chemistry and ended up as a teacher, that's not so much better." Dunstan shrugged his shoulders.

"I am the Chemistry Professor and the head of house at a Scientific Academy." He huffed. "I dare doubting that one can compare that to being a mechanic or a trucker."

"Maybe not." His brother nodded. "But that's what I'm doing at the present time, and that's what I'm happy with."

Well, at least his brother was able to articulate properly, not having slang and the speech of a schoolchild. He'd be able to converse with that man from time to time without getting bored or annoyed within the first five minutes.

"Concerning our inheritance – I suggest you think it over." Dunstan suddenly said and he scowled at the man, because neither did he wish to think it over, nor did he wish to speak about it. "I've had a long and difficult conversation with lawyer Winchester about everything, and in the end – well, I don't want father's partners getting all the money and everything else. They are already waiting in the wings like vultures, and so I've agreed to accept the inheritance, even though I didn't want to either. And for months now I have worried about what to do with that wealth, with all the banks and hotels and with the firms – it is too much for one person to handle, but if we did it together … think it over, Hereweald. Together we could manage."

"You really think that we two could rule the entire Hrothgar Imperium?" He sneered at his brother. "That is stupidity in its finest form. Father had an entire crew watching out and taking care of the imperium. I have no wish to end up like him. I am not as wealthy as he was, but I have a small manor and I have more money than I need for living, actually, and I am very content with what I have."

"Please, Hereweald, at least think it over." Dunstan asked and he sighed. "I cannot do this alone – but I won't have any of father's partners laying their greedy hands on the money either."

"I'll think it over." He sighed, glaring at his brother angrily.

"Thank you." The younger man said. "So – will we see each other again?"

"Sure, we'll date for a few times and in half a year I'll marry you." He drawled.

"Nice." Dunstan nodded his head, leaning back in his own seat. "But I won't stay at home to look after the children and to take care of the household. And I won't cook the meals either – I'm crap at cooking."

"You are a chemist and unable to cook?" He huffed. "Cooking is following written instructions just the way chemistry is – the only difference is, with chemistry you better don't lick the spoon. Other than that, any chemist should be able to cook a somewhat decent meal. However – yes, I suggest that we start going part of our ways together." He then added. "I will not invite you over and you better do not invite me, either, but I have no objections in meeting for a cup of coffee once in a while."

"That sounds good for the beginning." His brother answered and he lifted his eyebrow at the younger, because he had no inclination of changing that into a regular meeting.

He didn't know if it was a good thing or not, but like so often in his life he'd take the situation the way it was.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between snow and ice …**

 _Chapter ten: the bloody idiot and a cup of coffee …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	10. driving ban

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time it is about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading … to understand how things started in this story, you need to read _'between roses and peppermint'._

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn dorch Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smudge, bring brown rings caused by your coffee cup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _"Concerning our inheritance – I suggest you think it over." Dunstan suddenly said and he scowled at the man, because neither did he wish to think it over, nor did he wish to speak about it. "I've had a long and difficult conversation with lawyer Winchester about everything, and in the end – well, I don't want father's partners getting all the money and everything else. They are already waiting in the wings like vultures, and so I've agreed to accept the inheritance, even though I didn't want to either. And for months now I have worried about what to do with that wealth, with all the banks and hotels and with the firms – it is too much for one person to handle, but if we did it together … think it over, Hereweald. Together we could manage."_

 _"You really think that we two could rule the entire Hrothgar Imperium?" He sneered at his brother. "That is stupidity in its finest form. Father had an entire crew watching out and taking care of the imperium. I have no wish to end up like him. I am not wealthy, but I have more than I need for living and I am very content with what I have."_

 _"Please, Hereweald, at least think it over." Dunstan asked and he sighed. "I cannot do this alone – but I won't have any of father's partners laying their greedy hands on the money either."_

 _"I'll think it over." He sighed, glaring at his brother angrily._

 _"Thank you." The younger man said. "So – will we see each other again?"_

 _"Sure, we'll date for a few times and in half a year I'll marry you." He drawled._

 _"Nice." Dunstan nodded his head, leaning back in his own seat. "But I won't stay at home to look after the children and to take care of the household. And I won't cook the meals either – I'm crap at cooking."_

 _"You are a chemist and unable to cook?" He huffed. "Cooking is following written instructions just the way chemistry is – the only difference is, with chemistry you better don't lick the spoon. Other than that, any chemist should be able to cook a somewhat decent meal. However – yes, I suggest that we start going part of our ways together." He then added. "I will not invite you over and you better do not invite me, either, but I have no objections in meeting for a cup of coffee once in a while, however."_

 _"That sounds good for the beginning." His brother answered and he lifted his eyebrow at the younger, because he had no inclination of changing that into a regular meeting._

 _He didn't know if it was a good thing or not, but like so often in his life he'd take the situation the way it was._

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter ten – driving ban**

 **Or – the bloody idiot**

 **December 22** **nd** **, 1939, Friday – Coppermine, Barren Ground, Canada**

 **Viewpoint of Jean McIory**

Leaning back in the driver's seat, Jean took a deep breath before releasing it slowly – he was tired.

He'd been on the roads for hours now, but he wanted to get home, finally, because he should have been home yesterday already, on Thursday evening – and now it was Friday evening and he'd lost twenty-four hours to that damn storm already. Well – he'd been correct, of course, and there _had_ been a snowstorm, and it had been no harmless snowstorm but one that had soared through the lands for two days.

Here, in the middle of Canada, the storm had started on Wednesday forenoon, and theoretically he'd been forbidden to drive. Big Bear had called all the camps after the storm had made its way from Indiana, over Michigan and Wisconsin, to Minnesota and then to Manitoba, announcing an official ban on driving for all the trucks on the ice roads – they all had to remain at the current camps until the blizzard was over so that they couldn't be surprised by the snowstorm – and that meant, theoretically, he'd had to remain at Flat Hallow, what – practically – had been a no-go.

Not at Flat Hollow!

He was not even going into the barrack for drinking a beer together with the drivers from this nice country here, let alone for dinner or sleeping – he ate a sandwich in his truck after he'd unloaded what had to remain here and after he'd loaded that what had to go south to Camp Rocknest Lake or to Pine Point, and then he filled the tank and slept in the cabin of his truck even though it was forbidden, generally, because if the engine should stop running overnight, whatever reason for, then the driver sleeping in the cabin would easily freeze to death.

But, well, there was that small word – _generally_ – because no one cared up here at Flat Hollow. They didn't care, and he didn't care either, because anything was better than spending time in that barrack … in other words, he had been to face horror the moment Big Bear had announced the ban on driving. But well – there had been no other choice, and he'd had to remain up there at Flat Hollow – at least for some time.

Well, he'd entered the barrack for a nice breakfast.

He'd read a few magazines about the newest trucks, about different routes and about several transport firms, drinking coffee and enjoying the warmth of the barrack and his free day, ignoring the idiots from Flat Hollow – but coming afternoon he'd taken another magazine, a cup of coffee, and he'd gone back to his truck, reading, and then sleeping.

Up here at Flat Hollow, they kept the engines of their trucks running during the night, because starting the engine after an icy night with fifty or sixty degrees below zero, it simply was a task impossible, and so he'd filled the tank before preparing for sleep in the warm cabin of his truck.

Well, come afternoon, Big Bear had expanded the ban on driving, telling them that after the first snowstorm a second blizzard was about to come up, but he knew that in ninety-eight percent of all cases the second snowstorm would lose power soon, most likely before it had reached the border of the Barren Ground – after all, the first storm had already died down before reaching them up here, most likely not even crossing the Dolphin and Union Strait, and so he had – against the ban Big Bear had announced – left Flat Hollow tonight after he'd slept for a few hours, starting early in the morning – or rather in the middle of the night – to make up the time he'd lose due to the last remnants of the storm he'd surely have to face further in the south.

And he'd nearly managed.

He'd passed Coleville being early, of course, seeing that he'd left Flat Hollow early, too, and he'd just passed Peninsula when Big Bear had called him via radio – he'd thought that the man would call him earlier.

"McIory, you damn idiot!" Had the man's voice come through the speakers. "What exactly did you think you were doing? I really should sign you off – if only I had another driver! This is the second time you're driving the truck not only against all odds – _and orders_ – but also in a condition that is simply unacceptable!"

"Don't worry, Big Bear." He'd said. "I have already passed Peninsula, and there's no storm at all, really. If everything goes well, I'll reach the Dolphin and Union Strait before the storm arrives, and if so, then I'll be able to pass Bernard Harbour and Coppermine before the thick of it."

"And you think that sets me at ease?" Big bear roared through the radio. "If it were the first time you're ignoring a driving ban – but it isn't! Again you seem to forget that I am responsible for my drivers, and that includes, at the moment, you – you damn, bloody, idiot!"

Steering the truck through the world of snow and ice, white snowflakes swirling through the air, dense enough to rob him any sight in the darkness of the late evening, he could only hope that he was still on the right track instead of someplace in the wilderness of the Barren Ground, far off the ice road, and he couldn't deny that Big Bear was not completely wrong, one way or another, because it really wasn't the first time … and it really … well … on the other hand – it's been different circumstances back then …

He was creeping forwards with about twenty miles per hour, unable to go quicker in the snowstorm that had caught him off guard, remembering a time several years ago when he'd had a driving ban, too.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **End of November 1927, Pine Point, Canada**

 **Viewpoint of Cole Benson**

He knew that Jean would start working again this morning and he _had_ taken the time to travel up to Pine Point, because if he couldn't keep the blasted boy from sitting back behind the steering wheel of the truck, then at least he wanted to wish him some luck – and to have a word with Pete Anderson, too. He had long enough tried to speak some sense into the boy, had tried to tell him that he should wait, that it was too early.

Jean still wasn't over Isaac's death and he was far from being in the physical condition to sit behind the wheel of a more than one-hundred ton vehicle and drive it more than three hundred miles across the ice of the arctic ocean to the interim storage, and he could just hope that Jean would see reason the moment he arrived at the middle store, preferably before he started to drive any further up to the north, because once he had left the interim storage towards the north, once he were up there in the absolute solitude of the northern Barren Ground and the Victorian Islands, he would have no chance to turn around and he – Cole – he would have had no chance to simply get quick help sent up there either.

He would try to reach Big Bear on the radio and inform him about Jean's insanity, enlighten him about his condition and ask him to cast an eye on the boy, if necessary preventing him from continuing up north, if necessary speaking out a driving ban, but that was all he could do.

"You are really sure you wish to see it through, Jean?" He asked the moment Jean opened the door to his truck.

The boy just looked at him with his dark eyes and gave him a curt nod.

Of course he nodded, of course he _only_ nodded to be correct – because he hadn't spoken a word with anyone since the affair at the quarry, with absolutely no one.

"What will you do if something happens on your way, Jean?" He asked in frustration. "If you get stuck, if anything happens, what do you do then? You wouldn't even be able to call someone for help on the radio. Jean, this is madness, what you are going to do is utter madness and it also is utter madness that Pine Point allows you out there, to let you drive in your state, which simply is irresponsible and I'd like to demolish Anderson's office for it!"

Jean looked at him for another moment, nearly frustrated by himself and he looked as if he wanted to give contradiction, but then he pressed his lips together and shook his head.

He knew himself that he was mad and he also knew that he was too stupid to speak, to express himself verbally. And also that he was too stupid to remember anything – he didn't need Cole to remember _that_! But nothing would go wrong! He just had to do this, he just had to know if he was still able to do his job.

And with a nearly angry look at the sheriff he climbed up into the truck and slammed the door. He inclined his head for a short moment in way of farewell and then started the engine, set the truck in motion slowly, leaving the Pine Point store and Cole who watched him with frustration, behind.

Well, so far he managed rather well, he at least had not forgotten how to drive and that was something, wasn't it?

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

"Do you have any idea what could happen out there, Anderson?" Cole asked, outraged. "Damn how could you have allowed him out there in the state he is!"

"Now listen to me, Benson!" Anderson growled. "Jean came in here and wanted to drive, why should I have talked it out of him?"

"Because it is irresponsible, Pete! What do you think the boy should do out there if he is in any trouble? How do you think will he manage to inform anyone and ask for help? Taking the mike and pushing a note through with the words _'I'm stuck, please send help'_? Or to give away smoke signals? What were you thinking?"

Well, Cole was absolutely angry.

He could understand Jean, and he really could, the boy only wanted to know if he still was able doing his job, after all, but he couldn't understand Anderson. How could _he_ have allowed Jean to start?

"If Jean wants to drive, then I let him." Anderson answered, angrily. "I'll do a shit and start banning my drivers, not as long as they _can_ drive. Jean can't remember anything, so what? He won't get lost out there as the ice road is straight and there isn't an exit either – I mean, it is no highway after all! And he can't talk, so what? He has both his legs and both his arms and so he can accelerate and he can use the break he can use the gear and he can use the steering wheel. I don't see your problem, Cole."

"Do you have a brain for five cent in your head?" Cole asked. "Jean isn't ready yet. He is still too uncertain and he still has not back his entire strength. On the contrary. Did you look at him closely for once? What if something happens in this state of his and then he gets into a panic attack, he wouldn't even able to ask for help on the radio! That was irresponsible of you and I swear, if something happens to Jean out there, then I will have your sorry hide for it!"

"Is this meant to be a threat, sheriff?"

"Absolutely no, Anderson. This was no threat, it was a promise and believe me, I'm not _any_ one, I'm the police chief of New Heaven's Valley and if I say that this was irresponsible, then it has been just that!"

Angrily Cole left the office and slammed the door.

Of course … Anderson was interested in money only and as long as Jean was driving he was bringing money – and so long Anderson didn't need to pay another driver, didn't need to pay anything in addition – that was all, there wasn't anything else in Anderson's opinion, nothing else mattered to Pete Anderson.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

Mile for Mile he had fought his way through the white wilderness that was north Canada in the midst of winter and more than once since he'd had left Pine Point he'd had to stop to get his fingers off the steering wheel for just a moment and to press his aching back against the backrest, to close his eyes for just a moment – while at the same time tiredness and frustration added to his aching back and his headache, frustration and disappointment about himself.

Of course he had gathered information before he had started and none of the other drivers needed more than one break on the route, if even that. The stop in Yellowknife was enough for them. And he also knew that he was far behind his schedule. He should be in Rocknest Lake, and therefore the interim storage, at eight in the evening, half past eight at the latest – but he knew that he wouldn't even make it to ten.

It's been just half an hour after he'd started when someone had called him through the radio, most likely the chief driver from the interim storage, a guy called Big Bear, and the man hadn't sounded too happy.

"McIory, you bloody idiot!" The deep voice of someone who had to be big and corpulent thundered, sounding more than just a little angry. "You might be unable to answer – as Cole has just informed me – but I know that you're able to hear me. So, you better turn around upon reaching Yellowknife and make way back to Pine Point or I swear, you'll lose your job! You hereby have a driving ban until I say otherwise, and I won't do _that_ before I have not got word from Doc Brown about you being back to your old self."

Well – he had just ignored it, because he couldn't help it. He'd had to know. He'd had to know if he was still able to do his job. He hadn't cared about this guy telling him that he'd lose his job – if only he wasn't incapable of working. He knew that he was an idiot, that he was idiotic and stupid, dense, a weakling, and a coward. He didn't need being incapable of working added to anything else, really.

And just as he had thought – it was half past ten when he finally reached Rocknest Lake and therefore the interim storage, and once more he sighed in frustration, and hit his fist against the steering wheel. Angrily he climbed down the truck and then slammed the door of the truck behind him.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 22** **nd** **, 1939, Friday – Coppermine, Barren Ground, Canada**

It hadn't been a funny time.

Neither those damn two months with the Hudson, nor all those months afterwards. He'd been in Hospital for more than a few weeks only and they'd told him that he'd been close to death. But the worst time had been all those months during which he'd been at home, waiting for the day Big Bear accepted him back on the road, back in his truck, back on the team, but Big Bear had kept his promise – he had _not_ allowed him back on his route before Doc Brown had given him an attest, never mind how often he'd just taken his truck to drive to Rocknest Lake – and that had been more than once, but each time Big Bear had brought him back home, back to New Heaven's Valley.

He'd tried getting work at other truckage companies, because anything was better than sitting at home, and he did have his own truck, after all, but no one had taken him, of course not, and in the end he'd had no other choice than waiting.

With the time he'd started wrenching on cars, towing them off when they broke down on the highway, preferably trucks as Norman from Norman's Garage in New Heaven's Valley couldn't tow _them_ away, only the smaller cars – but that hadn't been the same, and it hadn't been satisfying either … it had not been his job, it had not been his life.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **End of November 1927, Rocknest Lake, Barren Ground, Canada**

"He's here." Big Bear growled, angrily.

For nearly two hours he had looked out of the window over and over again, waiting for Jean, his anxiety growing and reaching unknown heights. If this idiot wouldn't have appeared at eleven, then he would send someone to go looking for him.

"I warn you, all of you." He glared at his drivers. "No stupid remarks. You know that Jean has not yet recovered fully and you know what Cole has said. He doesn't remember anything and so probably he doesn't remember us either. Furthermore – he's unable speaking, whatever reason for, I have no idea. I'd like to wring his neck if it were up to me, driving here in his state! I expect all of you to act absolutely normal and you won't dare approaching him on it. I'll do that! I'm warning you, whoever is stupid enough to let go of any stupid comment – has seen his job, just so that we understand each other and that goes for you especially, Frank!"

The trucker called by name wanted to give an angry reply, but Big Bear just raised his hand and stared at him for a few seconds with almost cold eyes, waiting until Frank had inclined his head and lowered his eyes, before he turned to the others. "Well, and now off with you, unloading."

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

Jean opened the cargo doors of his truck and then again he sighed in frustration, noticing – and not for the first time today – that maybe Cole had been right. It took him three attempts to release the lock and he was sure that this couldn't be normal, that he had managed opening it on the first try in the past. He had become weak. Uncoupling the second trailer to get at the loading platform, it had taken him more than ten minutes to do it and he'd had the feeling that it even had been longer than _that_.

Tiredly he finally climbed onto the loading platform and for a moment he ran his hand over his face before he started to sort out what had to be unloaded here. He had – just like the newcomers normally did – taped notes with the inscription _'interim storage'_ to anything that had to be unloaded here, and nevertheless he stood there for a moment and stared at the cartons and sacks rather helplessly.

"Hi, Jean." A thundering voice beside him announced someone's presence and startled he turned, scared for a moment.

Beside him a giant of a man had approached the truck and was climbing up the ramp, and for a moment he had to quell down the instinct of simply shying back against the wall of the truck. "Nice to see you in one piece, my friend." The giant said and came closer, extending his hands to pull him close into his arms for a heartily greeting, but Jean couldn't help drawing back with a soft cry of fear and the other stopped abruptly, lowering his arms, and with a nearly sad look in his eyes he nodded.

"It's alright, Jean." He then said. "Let's get inside, Ma has prepared an extra plate of her Chilli for you. I'll take this one with me now, it's the mail." The giant added, chuckling softly, and he took one of the sacks and threw it onto the ramp.

Jean at the same time lifted his eyebrow for a moment, nearly looking disapprovingly. He perfectly understood what the other was trying to do and with a grim expression on his face he took another of the sacks that was meant for the camp here and heaved it over his shoulder.

The trucker watched Jean for another moment and again a sad expression washed over his face, came into his eyes. Well, this could become harder than he had thought, as it seemed, Jean still was as stubborn as … damn! He could see the tiredness and the exhaustion in his face and he could see his hands trembling. His eyes fell onto Jean's bare wrists, the sleeve of the pullover having slipped up, seeing the barely healed scars that wound themselves around the small wrists and he had to turn away, had to fight for his self-control to keep himself from hitting his fist against the wall of the truck. He didn't want to know how the rest of Jean's body looked. Fucking shit!

"Come on, boy, it's late and you've been sitting behind the steering wheel for hours. Forget about the load and come in." He then said in playfully joking tone of voice to hide his own horror. "The boys can unload this crap here."

Jean stopped and then eyed him with a look that clearly showed his disapproval again – causing the giant to laugh for real now.

"Nope, boy, don't look at me like that, not with _that_ look, it won't work with _me_. I have my boys for just such things and they haven't done much work today so far – and no, it has absolutely _nothing_ to do with you and what had happened, we have handled such situations just the same when it had gotten later with one of the drivers in the past. So shut up and get your backside into the barrack."

Without another word he took the sack from Jean's hand, threw both of them over his shoulder and then he pushed the boy's backpack into his hands and shoved him with his other hand over to the loading dock.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

For a moment Jean winced startled when he felt the hand of the other man on his shoulder and a nearly guilty look crossed his face before he tried to get himself back under control and to get over to the barrack behind the guy called Big Bear.

The giant threw open the door to the building and carelessly threw the sacks into the office, he then led Jean into the large common room and to one of the empty tables in a corner in the back of the shed.

"Sit down Jean, I'll get you a cup of hot coffee and something to eat." He then said with a thunderous voice, pointing at the inviting seat, and Jean looked around unsurely, looking into the faces of the other truckers that every now and then threw just as unsure looks at him while halting in their conversations for a moment, and he tried to remember them, their names, their faces, anything – but he didn't, and he sighed.

Just what he needed right now, a pack of strange people that stared at him and with a frustrated sigh he lowered his eyes and sat down so that he had the wall in his back.

"Well, boy." The giant came back to the table and placed a cup of coffee in front of Jean, sat down opposite him. Another trucker came over and wanted to sit down with them, but the giant looked at him seriously.

"Not now, Worry." He calmly said. "I would like to talk with Jean alone first."

Worry looked at Jean for a moment and then at the giant before he nodded.

"Ok, Big Bear … 'till later, Jean." He then said, waving happily, but Jean could see that the trucker called Worry seemed rather disappointed than really happy.

Big Bear nodded for a moment, watching Worry leaving and sitting down with the others, and then he turned back to Jean.

"How are you, boy?" He then asked and after a split second Jean lowered his eyes and nodded.

"I take it that this is meant to be translated with _'alright'_ , isn't it?" Big Bear asked, shaking his head and again Jean nodded, shrugging his shoulders what clearly meant that he didn't care. He knew the boy for long enough to being able to read his gestures and expressions meanwhile.

"Sure, it's absolutely clear that you're well, you look as if you're coming just from your holidays." Big bear answered ironically while he still shook his head. Jean had not changed in any way, at least if it concerned his stubbornness. Nearly snorting he leaned his lower arms onto the table and looked at Jean intently. "Alright, and now get out this notebook of yours and tell me how your ride has been, boy. You didn't have any troubles out there, did you?"

Jean looked up at him for a moment, startled, swallowing heavily and then he put the cup of coffee he just a moment ago had taken into his hands to take a sip back onto the table, a startled and horrified expression on his face.

"What did you think, boy?" He asked in a growl, getting angry. "That we won't know and that you could simply overplay things just like this? We're friends, Jean, and therefore I would like to handle this with you the way we always have handled things. Nothing is kept hidden here. I know that you don't remember anything and I also know that, at the present time you're unable speaking – whatever reason for, that is not really important to me, not now at least. However, I am not only your friend here, but I am your boss as long as you are driving this route also, and you're one of my drivers. So, Mr. McIory, even if I know that you do _not_ like it one bit – you just get out this notebook of yours and tell me of your ride."

For a few more seconds Jean just sat there, watching Big Bear unsurely before he finally pressed his teeth together and lowered his eyes anew. He reached for his backpack and with shaking fingers he pulled out the small notebook he was carrying with him in one of the side pockets for a few weeks now, even though he rarely needed the bloody thing, because generally he just ignored people or their babbling. This here, this all was going wrong. He rather had hoped that after unloading the truck he could slip into his bunk and go to sleep to silently and unnoticed continue on to north the next morning. Damn! He hadn't imagined the situation like this and he had the feeling that he was about to make a fool of himself – like always, lately, nothing new here, really.

Sighing he took out his pencil.

'everything was alright on the road' He wrote and slipped the notebook over to Big Bear, still feeling more than just a little frustrated.

Big Bear lifted his eyebrow, but he read what Jean had written down.

"Is that so?" He then asked, his eyebrow lifted at the kid. "Then what kept you, Jean?"

'nothing, just took too many breaks' Was the answer and Big Bear already could read it upside down. That at least seemed to get easier than he had feared.

"And what's the plan for tomorrow, my friend?" He asked, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms in front of his broad chest, angrily. "Today it has been three hundred miles only, Jean, tomorrow you will have nearly four hundred miles and through a much more difficult terrain than today."

'I'll just start earlier tonight' Big Bear read and immediately he waved it off.

"Not a chance, boy." He answered. "You will not only have to stick to your eight hour break, but you also have a driving ban over your head. Damn, Jean! What exactly do you think?"

This time Jean didn't write an answer but the frustration in his face had been risen and Big Bear could clearly see it.

"Now you will listen to me very well, boy." He finally said, seriously. "I just have to look at you to know that you are not ready yet. How long are you out of hospital even? Just a weak, am I not correct?"

Jean just glared at him and Big Bear softly huffed.

"A week." He growled. "One bloody week, Jean. Damn! Just look at yourself. You've been gone for more than two months and the Lord only knows what those bloody Hudsons have done with you during all that time. Isaac is dead and you yourself have been more dead than alive when they've found you. I have been to the hospital after they have taken you there, Jean, I have seen you and honestly, I still feel ill by just thinking back of it."

Without a warning he took Jean's hand and rolled up the sleeve of his pullover, ignoring Jean's startled and scared gasp, uncovering the slender wrist with the scars and he had to force himself to look at it. He didn't want to startle Jean, he didn't want to frighten the kid, but he wanted to make it absolutely clear that he would not allow him to go on to the north.

"These scars here are not even healed yet, boy, and you better don't tell me that your writs are not hurting. I would not believe you." He said with a soft but firm voice, rolling up the sleeve of the pullover further and exposing a bony lower arm. "And seeing this here, I do not even have to take a _guess_ to see that you have a long way ahead in reaching your previous body weight that has always been too little to begin with anyway, not to mention your previous strength. You are barely able to fight me. In the past you would have managed wrestling yourself out of my grip, and easily so."

Releasing the thin wrist finally, after the boy had tried to fight his hold, Jean gripped his sleeves immediately with both his hands, as if he would grasp for a safety line.

"I have just to look into your eyes Jean, to know why you needed more breaks than normally." He continued. "You are tired and you are exhausted. This trip up here, it has drained you, damn, Jean! When Cole called me this morning and told me that you are as idiotic as to sit behind the wheel of a heavy truck to drive here, in your state – I first thought that he had made a joke. But no, he hadn't! You're really sitting here! And to be honest – I really don't have the slightest clue as to how you have even made it that far. You better do not forget, I don't just lead this camp, I drive those heavy loads myself. I do know what it means. I do know that one needs every bit of strength, of energy and of nerves one can muster, especially on this route here."

Still Jean didn't give an answer, didn't even look at him but stared at his cup he still was holding in front of him and frustrated himself Big Bear sighed and ran his hand over his face. He could understand Jean, the boy just wanted to re-tie his life at any point, wanted to get back to his feet and wanted his life back to normal, but not like this, because it wouldn't be responsible – and it wouldn't work either.

"Listen to me, kid, I'm sorry." He then said. "Neither did I wish to startle you, nor to hurt you, but I need you to see reason." He then said. "I simply can't allow you to go on to the north, Jean. Come back the moment you're ready, when you're really recovered, physically. For anything else we can find a solution, may it be your speaking or may it be your memory. We will find a solution, but you need to recover fully first. And then you'll be on the team without further ado, you have my word on this. You're one of my best drivers, but not in this state, I need you healthy, do you understand?"

Big Bear looked into Jean's eyes searchingly when the younger and much smaller man lifted his head to look at him, but the frustration that nearly boarded on desperation caused him to grit his own teeth in frustration for a moment, but finally Jean nodded and Big Bear took a deep breath of relief.

"Good." He then said. "And now tell me how you're really doing."

Again Jean hesitated for a moment, but then he took the notebook and wrote 'dunno, tired' and Big bear nearly huffed.

"Of course you are." He answered, chuckling softly. "It would have been a miracle if you weren't. Wait here, boy. I'll get your Chilli before it's cold again and then you'll eat. After that you'll go to bed and tomorrow you'll go back south together with me. That suits me well. I'll have to take the trip to Whitechapel Mount City this week anyway, as I have to get my new truck from the flagship store – so I can just as well do that tomorrow. I'll take your truck down to Pine Point and so I won't need to take Worry with me – after all, I can't take two trucks back here. And besides, that way your truck is down there where it belongs to – and where you, just by the way, belong to just as well."

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 22** **nd** **, 1939, Friday – Rocknest Lake, Barren Ground, Canada**

Well, that had been fun.

Alright – no, it hadn't been fun, not really, not one bit, after all, but – well, that's been _him_ , and in a way, it _still_ was him.

Something told him that he was close to Rocknest Lake and therefore the interim storage, the road felt like it, and the air felt like it, too … everything felt like coming home – _and_ … there had been a lamppost, at least he thought that he had passed a lamppost. So he decelerated his speed – even though one couldn't speak of speed when it came to twenty miles per hour he was driving – and strained his eyes, carefully to not drive into one of the barracks should they appear in front of him suddenly.

Well, still there were times when people talked around him and he was content with just listening, without saying something, and still there were times when he suddenly, from one moment to the other, noticed that … he was close to a relapse, that either he opened his mouth right now to say something, _anything_ , or he wouldn't say anything at all ever again, even now, after so many years, and after Dunstan had overtaken Isaac's place, had become something like a second dad for him.

Taking a deep breath, he could see light in front of him and quickly he applied the brakes, not really knowing how far off the loading dock was, because the snow was still coming down like a white curtain, and he could only see bits and pieces of the storage depot that was someplace in front of him.

It had been months, until Big Bear had taken the ban of driving off him, but in the end, he'd been back on the team and he'd been back on the road, officially. Big Bear had driven the first tour together with him, accompanying him during these first few days – and it had been good days. He'd still not remembered anything except for bits and pieces, except for small little things, short flashes of memories that had no connection to each other or to anything else that might be in his mind, and somehow it had been like learning to know the other anew.

From one moment to the other the curtain of snow lifted and the loading dock appeared before him, the stony ramp so close before his engine hood, he quickly jammed the brake but anyway prepared himself for the collision with the loading dock. It had been a split second only, and the moment the truck stopped still, he took a deep breath, looking through the windshield, and he noticed that there was barely an inch between the dock and his radiator cowling.

Well, that had been close again.

The door to the storage barrack opened with a loud _'thud'_ , and a giant of a man appeared in the doorway, blocking the light that came from inside of the hut, not allowing the bright light to eliminate the snow that covered the area even here, beneath the large roof in front of the large building that was the barrack to the left and the loading dock to the right, casting a large shadow onto the snow, threatening and intimidating.

Big Bear – and he seemed not pleased.

Well, he had managed again … once more he'd managed … he'd pissed Big Bear's leg, as it seemed – but he'd managed.

He was at his second home, he was at Rocknest Lake, he was at the interim storage.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between snow and ice …**

 _Chapter eleven: how Damien came to visit church …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	11. a bargain with God

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time it is about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading … to understand how things started in this story, you need to read _'between roses and peppermint'._

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn dorch Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smudge, bring brown rings caused by your coffee cup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _Taking a deep breath, he could see light in front of him and quickly he applied the brakes, not really knowing how far off the loading dock was, because the snow was still coming down like a white curtain, and he could only see bits and pieces of the storage depot that was someplace in front of him._

 _It had been months, until Big Bear had taken the ban of driving off him, but in the end, he'd been back on the team and he'd been back on the road, officially. Big Bear had driven the first tour together with him, accompanying him during these first few days – and it had been good days. He'd still not remembered anything except for bits and pieces, except for small little things, short flashes of memories that had no connection to each other or to anything else that might be in his mind, and somehow it had been like learning to know the other anew._

 _From one moment to the other the curtain of snow lifted and the loading dock appeared before him, the stony ramp so close before his engine hood, he quickly jammed the brake but anyway prepared himself for the collision with the loading dock. It had been a split second only, and the moment the truck stopped still, he took a deep breath, looking through the windshield, and he noticed that there was barely an inch between the dock and his radiator cowling._

 _Well, that had been close again._

 _The door to the storage barrack opened with a loud 'thud', and a giant of a man appeared in the doorway, blocking the light that came from inside of the hut, not allowing the bright light to eliminate the snow that covered the area even here, beneath the large roof in front of the large building that was the barrack to the left and the loading dock to the right, casting a large shadow onto the snow, threatening and intimidating._

 _Big Bear – and he seemed not pleased._

 _Well, he had managed again … once more he'd managed … he'd pissed Big Bear's leg, as it seemed – but he'd managed._

 _He was at his second home, he was at Rocknest Lake, he was at the interim storage._

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter eleven – a bargain with God**

 **Or – visions and dreams**

 **December 23** **rd** **1939, Saturday – Whitechapel Mount, Indiana, Hathaway Academy**

 **Viewpoint of Johnny Constantin**

Sitting in the library and skimming through a book about the High- and Lowlands of Britain, doing some research for geography, he looked up when his Professor entered the spacious hallway, most likely looking for a book about chemistry, and even though the man didn't notice him sitting in one of the alcoves, he couldn't help smiling with content, the well-known feeling of safety settling in his chest once more at seeing his head of house, realizing that his Professor was back home.

The man had come back yesterday evening, and he'd seldom been as relieved as he'd been that moment.

He'd been in the canteen, together with Irving, knowing that he better didn't skip meals, because if the other boy told the teachers, he'd be in trouble, and while he would trust his fellow students from his own house, he didn't trust Irving. He'd soon learned to better not trusting any student from the other houses, they'd always tell on them. Not that any of the present teachers would even care, they never did, but if his head of house learned of it – and he held no illusion of the man not learning of it, because the Professor always knew things – then he was in real trouble as his head of house had always made it clear – they were not to skip meals, never.

However, he hadn't slept too well for the past few nights, knowing that not only did he have to sleep in a house that was not his own, but in the presence of strangers, no less, and in the absence of his head of house, too.

Irving might be a fellow student of his, sure, but not one of his house, and thus a stranger – and Professor VanHarkins … well, he knew that Professor Hrothgar and Professor VanHarkins were friends, kind of, but that didn't mean that he could lower his guard in front of the math and physics professor, not if his head of house was not present to protect him from the other teachers.

And no, there was no need to sugarcoat anything, because it was the truth that the Hrothgar house was hated by not only the other students due to the Professor giving always handing out marks, hateful remarks and at least twice as many detentions than the other teachers, but their house was hated by the other teachers, too, due to the Professor simply being a bastard that annoyed any of them, and it were them, who had to pay for it.

No, he better kept out of their way, and he better kept himself out of Professor VanHarkins' way, too.

Never take a risk, absolutely never.

 **Flashback**

 _"Two days left until Christmas." Irving said, taking a steak, roasted potatoes and pudding, ignoring the vegetables as well as the salad, and he nodded his head while he put a bit of the roasted potatoes on his plate, together with some vegetables – ignoring the steak. Not that he generally refused meat – no, he just wasn't really hungry, and he wasn't really looking forwards to Christmas, either, knowing that maybe his head of house wouldn't be here by then – because of course they had heard about the damage on the road the blizzard had caused, or rather the ledge of the slope that had come down on the road below – and so he knew that maybe the Professor wouldn't be here in time for Christmas eve. And … he suddenly couldn't help worrying – what if maybe the professor wouldn't come back, ever? And for a moment panic threatened to overwhelm him, because what was he to do if Professor Hrothgar wouldn't come back?_

 _The other teachers hated him._

 _They hated all of them, the students from the Hrothgar house, always ridiculing them, giving them detention and bad marks, having them failing tests and essays, and even expelling them from their lessons. There wasn't one single day during which not one of them had to leave the classroom and during which not one of them got into detention or got extra work to do … he'd leave school if he'd have to live in a different house, getting ridiculed not only during lessons, but during their free time, too, in the privacy – and safety – of their houses._

 _"I can't wait to have Christmas dinner and then getting the presents." Irving said, starting to wolfing down his food. "I've written mom and dad, asking them for money for the next trip to Whitechapel Mount City in January, too. I'm going with James and Martin, visiting the big shopping centre, like always. Are you going, too?"_

 _"Maybe." He answered, sighing._

 _Of course he wouldn't go, he never did, but that wasn't anything the other boy had to know about. Charles Irving was babbling, and babbling, and babbling, never getting tired of his babble, and it was driving him nuts, because it really was babble. There wasn't anything meaningful or interesting in what the boy was babbling on about, and sometimes he thought that he was just babbling because no one else was saying anything._

 _Maybe it was better when the other students were back – or maybe the other boy's babbling wasn't so annoying because of everyone babbling on, too, he didn't know – and then …_

 _"I do hope that this is not all you are eating, Mr. Constantin." A dark, deep and velvet voice came from behind, and he couldn't help feeling relieved the moment he turned, looking up to see his head of house standing there, tall, rigid, his hands held behind his back, like always, his face like made of stone except for his eyebrow that was raised in clear disapproval._

 _"Good evening, Professor." He said, quickly getting off his chair and standing before his head of house._

 _The man's black eyes watched him intensely, searchingly, the hard and cold eyes slicing through his entire awareness, and like always he had the feeling that the man was not only looking him over, looking for any visible harm, but that he also was looking into his innermost soul, reading his innermost thoughts and was even cutting his heart into two, to see what's in there, too._

 _"I expect you in my office in an hour sharp." His head of house then said. "And I suggest you make sure you're not late." The Professor added, ignoring Irving completely before he turned and walked away, briskly, and he took a deep breath the moment he sat back down into his chair._

 _His head of house was back._

 _"That was creepy." Irving said. "I really pity you with a head of house like Hrothgar."_

 _"Like Professor Hrothgar." He said, correcting the other boy who looked at him as if he wouldn't understand._

 _Well, of course the chemistry professor was a strict head of house, harsh, strict and severe, cold and hard – and yes, the man was difficult and unbending … scary … and you better answered to his rules if you wished to survive the day or he could become very nasty, even to his own students, but he was his head of house._

 _"Whatever." The other boy said, shrugging his shoulders and wolfing down his food, again, and he, Johnny, he took a deep breath of content before he got off the table and cleared away his plate. He left the canteen with a short "bye Irving" and then went to the guest room in Professor VanHarkins' house where he'd been sleeping for the past few nights, getting his things, before he knocked at the doorframe to Professor VanHarkins' study._

 _"Professor Hrothgar is back, sir." He said the moment the man looked up from his desk. "He has asked me to his office – and thanks for … taking me in, sir." He then added, before quickly hurrying off and towards his own house._

 _They'd never understand!_

 _Sure, Professor Hrothgar could become very nasty, he could become a real bastard, and eighty-five percent of the students at Hathaway feared and hated the Chemistry Professor, but they didn't know the other side of the man, because the Professor was also loyal to his students, and he cared. Where no one else cared, he did, and they could always count on their head of house, they could always go to him, never mind what and never mind when._

 **End flashback**

Well, his head of house was back, and that meant that he didn't have to celebrate Christmas in a house that was not his own. And – the professor had made it clear that he'd be there, too, that he'd partake in the Christmas dinner, and that he'd even sit together with them for the evening, playing games and reading stories.

He held no illusion, and he knew that the man would not partake in the games or in the story-reading, but his head of house would be there, and that was enough for him, because he'd be there when they unwrapped their presents – so, he could pack his present for the professor beneath the tree tomorrow night after dinner, and he'd be there to watch his head of house unwrapping it. After all, he'd given some thought to the present he'd chosen.

He'd found it in an old book store during the summer holidays, a chemistry book that was … different from all the other chemistry books he'd seen before. It's been very old, and handwritten in Latin – at least that was what he thought it was – and the pictures in it were no photographs but they were drawn by hand, too.

But he knew that it was a chemistry book, because from what he could tell, there were experiments described in there, which they had done in chemistry already. However, it must be a really, really old chemistry book, and so he'd bought it and had hiding it beneath his bed since then. He'd been skimming through the pages once in a while when he'd been bored, a few weeks ago already he'd started wrapping it into brown paper, needing several days until he'd done it the right way so that it didn't look like crap, and he was somewhat proud of himself.

Well, the talk with the professor last night hadn't been too pleasant, he couldn't help thinking while watching his head of house leaving the alcove with an old and tattered book that clearly had seen better days, the man passing the alcove he was sitting in without seeing him.

"Professor?" He'd asked, after he'd approached his head of house, entering the man's private study, and he'd felt like coming home.

"Sit." The man had said, looking up from his desk and pointing at the armchair he had standing at the other end of the office. The professor had finished writing the sentence he'd begun – at least that was what he'd guessed he'd been doing – and then he'd got up from behind his desk, taking two cups and a pot of tea from the sideboard, and then he'd sat in the other armchair, pouring tea for the two of them. He knew that the Professor would never do such a thing in the open, but they'd been in privacy, and that was different.

"How are you doing, Mr. Constantin?" His head of house had then asked, leaning back in his armchair.

"I'm fine, thank you, sir." He'd answered.

"You seem to have a strange concept concerning the word – _'fine'_ , Mr. Constantin." The Professor had then said, his voice cold and hard. "Or you seem to forget that I hate it being lied to. So, maybe you might try again? Maybe with an explanation as to why you have not been sleeping properly, Mr. Constantin?" The man had asked coldly, his voice dark and silken. "Not to mention your disapproving eating habits lately."

"I've been just too worried, sir." He'd answered, knowing better than denying and giving contradictions.

"Explain." The man had said in his typical Hrothgar mannerism, cold, hard, demandingly.

"Well …" He'd slowly started, playing with the hem of his shirt, not really ready to make a fool of himself. "I … you've been gone for so long, sir." He had finally said with a sigh, knowing that there was no sidestepping. "And I feared you wouldn't make it back for Christmas – I didn't want to celebrate the holidays in Professor VanHarkins' house."

"I see." The man had answered, not laughing at him, not even lifting his eyebrow, not saying anything else than just – I see … and with a sigh he'd tried to find some anger in the face of his head of house, in the black eyes, around that harsh mouth – but there had been nothing, no anger and no anything else.

Of course there hadn't been, idiot! He scowled at himself.

The Professor never displayed his anger and his face was always a calm mask, even if they did something really stupid – and he'd done _some_ stupid things since he was at Hathaway. For a moment he shuddered, because even though the Professor was always wearing his calm mask, the consequences of their actions were anything else than calm – or pleasant.

"Back to berating yourself, Mr. Constantin?" Said Professor's voice came from behind him, startling him like so often, and he jumped for a moment before turning and looking up at the dark clad man. "I suggest you get ready for lunch – it is shortly before noon." And giving a quick nod away, he scrambled to his feet, and gathered his books.

Well, one better did not risk anything with the Chemistry Professor, and quickly he left the library to get back to his house – and then to the canteen.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 23** **rd** **, 1939, Saturday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Diesel Sanchez**

And there people said that God was justice, but where had that justice been the moment that God had made the ledge coming down on his house? _On his house!_

Not on McFlaherty's house, and not on Uí Ceallaigh's house either, and not even on Uí Domhnalláin's house.

That ledge had come down on _his_ house, and on _his_ house alone – so, where was the justice in that?

Damn shit!

He'd taken that bloody boy in, and in thanks their God made his house being buried beneath tons of snow and earth.

And they didn't even have Whiskey here – nor beer.

How was he to remain at this particular bloody house here they called their church?

Not to mention that he didn't have his privacy!

Whenever he was laying down to sleep on a sofa – seeing that he couldn't drink something – someone came by to ask him if he couldn't help with pushing the tables together, or with getting the tablecloths from the laundry hall, or with placing candles on the tables … with anything.

How could they even do so many things?

It was Christmas, alright, but wasn't it enough to drink a few cans of beer and to empty a bottle of whiskey? He would have put the brat's present – a can of beer and a bar of chocolate – on the kitchen table. But well, now the brat wouldn't get anything, because anything was buried beneath that ledge that had come down, even his clothes.

He was lucky that he hadn't been in the house because that idiot boy had pulled him outside last night to show him the lights their bloody church was decorated with. Idiot child. He'd not been drunk, but he'd been taken by surprise or the idiot child wouldn't have managed to pull him outside at all.

However, they – those idiots from this church here – had given him some clothes, clothes that were ten miles too large for him, and they'd told him he could take a shower.

"Come, Diesel." Gabe Heavensville said, pulling him off the chair he'd taken a seat on, tiredly. "You could help with decorating the tree so that tonight Norman and Morgan can put all the presents beneath it.

"Don' have one for the brat an'way." He growled. "It's buried b'neath tha' ledge."

"Don't worry." Gabe laughed. "He'll get something. No one in this church is going without a present."

Fucking shit!

Couldn't they have just a small, little glass of whiskey?

Watching Harley and Denim carrying the largest tree he'd ever seen into the large service hall of the church, he took a deep breath and scowled at the thought that not only he would have to decorate a Christmas tree, but that he'd also have to do it together with his brothers – and it was no secret that he and his brothers were no friends.

"God has given you the same strong name as have your brothers." Someone beside him said and turning he saw a guy he'd seen once in a while here in town, but whom he didn't know who he was. "Harley, Diesel and Denim." The man said. "I think that _that_ alone is a reason worth making an effort."

Taking a deep breath he scowled and then released his breath in a long and suffering sigh.

He'd survive decorating a tree together with his brothers. He'd survived it when he'd been young, living together with these two, and he'd survive it now, decorating a tree together with them.

"Come, brother." Gabe said to the guy that had appeared beside him, and for a moment he nearly laughed at the thought that these two might be brothers, because they were totally different in looks. "Let us help with the decoration. People are celebrating our Lord's birth, after all – that's important."

Gabe was tall, blond, fair-skinned and – even though clearly not weak, he was slender. A man in his best age, clearly intelligent, but blond and fair skinned … whereas this other guy, his brother … well, he was tall, too, but his hair was dark brown and his skin was tanned, weathered, and while he was clearly not weighty – he was … well, muscular and strong.

For a moment he imagined this man with a sword in his hand, fighting demons, and he scowled at his own imagination.

Stupid, really! Times during which people ran around with their swords like William Wallace, King Arthur and Richard Lionheart, were long since passed, and demons existed in some idiot fantasy movies or fantasy books only.

"Take some balls and hang them at the tree." Harley growled at him, glaring at him angrily. "Preferably without breaking them and cutting your fingers in the act."

For a moment he wanted to hit his fist into his brother's face – or at least telling him a piece of his mind – but he just glared back and took the box with red and golden Christmas balls. As if he couldn't hang them without breaking them … and even if, there were enough in that box, and there were several boxes with Christmas balls to begin with.

"Please, Harley." Denim said. "It's Christmas, be kind." And he huffed at his younger brother. Always the mediator! Always the go-between! He could defend himself perfectly well!

There was another glare from Harley, but then the man sighed and climbed the ladder to reach the upper branches of the large tree.

He scowled, but started hanging the Christmas balls.

It didn't take them long until they had – successfully – decorated the lower branches, and he'd even had some fun with Denim, he couldn't deny that, and then everything happened so quickly … he didn't really understand …

The moment Harley got off the ladder to get more balls, or some candles, he didn't really care about that, he started climbing the ladder – just to be yanked back a moment later, Harley having taken him by his arm.

"If you think I'll allow you on that ladder in your half-drunken state to fall off and break your bloody neck, you're mistaken." His brother hissed at him, his blue eyes glaring at him angrily, and before he could think it over, he dropped the balls and pulled back his fist for a blow long overdue that would hopefully break his brother's nose.

A third moment later his fist was caught by someone, and blinking stupidly, he made out that other guy, Gabe's brother, standing between them, tall and like a solid wall, his right hand enclosing his fist and easily holding it in place, keeping him from breaking Harley's nose with a sound that would be lovely.

"Don't." That guy said, his dark eyes on him, calmly, steadily, and without the slightest doubt he knew that this guy could easily break his fist, if he so wished, with just a little pressure of his fingers. "Don't." Was all the man said, but immediately he knew that not only did he mean that – not today, and not here, not even not his brother – but not ever – and again he could see that guy, wearing a sword … but not fighting men, but fighting demons, and he shook his head.

He hadn't been drinking for hours, damn! Why was he hallucinating?

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Michael**

"Don't." He said, calmly, holding the man's fist enclosed in his hand, and he could see understanding in Diesel's eyes, realization that he could easily crush the man's clenched fingers within his hand. "Don't." He repeated, waiting until the man's stormy eyes were calm and quiet again, and only then he slowly released the fist he had caught, making sure at the same time that Harley wouldn't get back on his brother either, the moment he had a free field.

He knew Diesel, had seen him once in a while, and so he knew that the man was nearly always drunk, not believing in their Lord, and simply a pessimistic misanthrope, a man he had foreseen would use physical force if being provoked, but he didn't know Harley and Denim, the two brothers being here for the first time since he was residing in New Heaven's Valley, but Gabriel seemed to like the two, and so he hoped that Harley would not strike back the moment he was stepping aside.

"No fighting in here." A cheerful voice came from the entrance door of the service hall. "You either take this outside on the streets, or you get the street in here, either way the choice is yours, but no fighting in here." And looking over, his eyes fell on the dark, on the black eyes of Sébastien Lafayette – and suddenly …

"Don't." The man said, but he didn't wear the Jeans and the black button down shirt … he was wearing black leather trousers and a black shirt made of fine and silky leather, a belt that held a sword and a hunting knife, and a dark, long bow was slung over his shoulder together with a quiver filled with dark arrows, the warrior's hand having caught the swords arm of a young man. "Don't." The warrior repeated, calmly, and he blinked – another moment Sébastien Lafayette stood in front of him, wearing Jeans and his black button down shirt with rolled up sleeves, smiling at him friendly.

What in heaven's name …

"Is something wrong, Michael?" The man asked, calmly, and he scowled at him.

"You have no dealings in the halls of the Lord." He quietly said – sure, he knew that it wasn't his place to go against that man, simply because the Lord had not told him to, but he was just an angel – archangel or not, but he was just an angel – and he was far from being perfect … _and_ – he couldn't go against his gut feeling, because he just _knew_ that there was something wrong with this man, again knowing that … this man was a demon, a follower of Satan … but then …

Two men were riding side by side, calmly and peacefully, two warriors, and while the one was not only wearing black clothes, his hair and his eyes being black as night, his entire being radiated darkness and evilness, too, and immediately he knew that it was Sébastien Lafayette. The other warrior was wearing light brown leather slacks, a fitting light brown shirt and a brown cloak, the hood hanging over his back, revealing blond hair and blue eyes in a fair face, and for a moment he'd thought that it was Gabriel – but then, Gabriel was no warrior, had never been one. He was the messenger of their Lord.

Anyway, he knew that the other man was an angel, and he also knew that both seemed very content in each other's presence, that both men trusted each other, and that both men …

"You have no dealings in the halls of the Lord." He repeated, nearly whispered.

"That is not for you to decide." Sébastien answered, calmly, and still friendly.

Another time he blinked, and again Sébastien Lafayette was standing before him, wearing Jeans and his black button down shirt with rolled up sleeves, looking at him worriedly.

"Would you two please stop that?" Gabriel came over, lifting his eyebrow at him disapprovingly. "You are not to argue, neither in the face of our Lord, nor within His halls. You just get these barrels of wine over here, Sébastien, and you, Michael, I'm sure that Wohehiv needs some help with preparing tomorrow's sermon."

Taking a deep breath he swallowed his anger, and casting one last wary and suspecting look at Lafayette, he gave a curt nod and then turned to go and look where that Cheyenne kept himself to work on his sermon.

He just knew that there was something wrong with that man, with Sébastien Lafayette, each single body cell screamed it at him by just looking at him, but by the life of him – even though he was immortal – he just couldn't name it.

Of course he knew that he wasn't a demon.

Because he lacked the evilness and the death that came from those creatures, he lacked the coldness and the foulness those creatures radiated – but he also knew that he was a follower of Satan, and one of his higher rank followers. He couldn't explain it, he just _knew_ it. The man's darkness, and the hardness, the …

Well, the Hrothgar-brothers were just as dark and as hard, cold and harsh to everyone, he couldn't help thinking – but … that was different. They were wearing black in order to appear strong and dangerous, in order to keep people off. They weren't these things, only trying to appear like that while Sébastien Lafayette _was_ all those things.

He just didn't understand.

And neither did he understand the visions he'd seen. Lafayette in a time that seemed hundreds of years ago, in Britain's Highlands, if he was not mistaken, and there were only two kinds of creatures which were immortal and able to become that old – namely angels and demons, and while he knew that Lafayette was no angel …

"Help me, Lord, with this man." He whispered, desperately. "Because I lack wisdom and patience to handle him without wariness and suspicion. I am your servant and I have reached the end of my rope, I need your help and your guidance."

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Damien Cleveland**

"It will be the best Christmas ever." Dorian said, and he couldn't help agreeing, because surely it would be just that.

It wasn't that Christmas in the past would have been less great, Christmas was always great, sitting at home during the holidays, drinking tea and playing games, visiting Pop's Soda Shoppe or visiting the cinema, and of course, partaking in one snowball fighting or another – not to mention the presents, of course.

But this year would be – perfect.

He'd never believed that something like this could happen, ever, mom being happy, but she was.

It's been last summer when he'd … well, nearly fled this very building. Dorian and Mr. Chandler had been talking, and Dorian had said he'd be happy to come again, and that maybe mom would come, too – it had been too much for him, because he'd been so sure that mom would never do that, not after dad's death, but here he was, and here mom was, and together they were preparing the greatest Christmas party ever … and it would be here in church, here, together with their friends, together with all the people from New Heaven's Valley. It would be the _greatest day_ , ever.

"Gabe said, that the festivities will go on until late into the night." He said, nodding his head – because mom was happy, and so he was happy, too.

"Yes, and we'll even be sleeping here, having Christmas breakfast on the 25th." Conner said, grinning.

They'd been outside for some time, and now Mr. Snowman had got Snowman Junior, a smaller snowman that was laying on his back, and he'd put an old pair of his shoes into the snow where Snowman Junior's feet would be. It really was looking as if there was a snowman child laying in the snow, making a snow-angel, because Angus had lain there, doing just this, and he hoped that it wouldn't be snowing again, or the angel wings would be hidden beneath a thick layer of new snow.

"Maybe we will, too?" Dorian asked, looking over at him, Damien, but he shrugged his shoulders.

"Dunno." He answered, shaking his head. "I'll ask mom later. If some of the other families are sleeping here, too, then maybe mom will agree."

He hadn't understood in the beginning, for a long time he hadn't understood, and he'd been rather agitated by Conner's talking about God and church, and bible things, about prayer and about having faith in God, that he would help his mother with her being sad about dad's death – he'd been so agitated, that he had even started an argument about it.

 **Flashback**

 _"Won't you come on Sunday?" Conner asked – and not for the first time. "It will be another great service again, Wohehiv will do the preaching on Sunday."_

 _"Surely not." He sighed, annoyed at his friend's constant trying of getting him to visit church again. "Mom needs me at home."_

 _"She doesn't need you at home when we're at Pop's Soda Shoppe." Conner answered, looking at him seriously, even challengingly. "Or when we're roaming the village, or while you're at school. I'm sure that she wouldn't mind you coming to church."_

 _"What do you know!" He called out, angrily. "You're not having a mom at home who's always sad because your dad has died." He said, trying to make it clear to the other boy. "You don't have to look out for your mum because you don't have a dad anymore who'd do that. You know nothing of that!"_

 _"You're right." Conner answered, sighing too. "I know nothing of that. But I know God, and so I know that he'd help, if only you let him. He'd help your mom, and he'd help you, if only you let him."_

 _"Can't you just stop talking about God?" He asked, feeling tired._

 _"Listen, Damien." Conner said, and he sighed, because he knew that the other boy just wouldn't stop. "I'll always tell you about God and the miracles he's doing, because he's an important part of my life, the most important part in my life, actually – God is the absolute number one in my life. He comes before you, before my mum and dad, before my siblings, and before me, and with my friends I'd like to talk about everything, not only about the weather and about what it will be for diner – otherwise it would be a lukewarm friendship, it wouldn't be a real friendship if I had to keep from talking about something that is so important to me. So – if we have a friendship, then I'll talk to you about God, too, and about my belief in him, and I always thought that we did have that friendship."_

 _"Of course we do." He scowled at the other boy. "But … it's just frustrating. It's God here, and God there, and … well …"_

 _"For me, God is more important than anything else." Conner said, as if he'd read his thoughts, and somehow he was relieved, because he didn't have to ask. "But that doesn't imply that your disbelief in something that is so important to me, means that our friendship is at risk. My friendship does survive your disbelief – does your friendship survive my belief, too?"_

 **End flashback**

Yes, Conner had given him a lot to think about.

He hadn't visited this particular last service back then, he'd been too busy with thinking – about his own place in a world that belonged to God, about what it would mean to his brother, to his mother, and about what it would mean for him. He'd not gone out to visit cinema or Pop's Soda Shoppe either, or to roam the village. He'd remained at home, preferably in his room, thinking, thinking about every man and his dog, and about his mom in particular.

And in the end, he'd made a deal – at least that was what he'd thought he'd made … truth had been, _God_ had made a deal with _him_ , because somehow he knew that God would never abide to the deals of men – but then … furrowing his brows in thought, he couldn't help thinking that … hadn't Abraham bargained with God for the lives of the people in Sodom and Gomorrah?

"The outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah is so great and their sin so grievous that I will go down and see if what they have done is as bad as the outcry that has reached me." God had said, and Abraham had shaken his head, approaching God.

"Will you sweep away the righteous with the wicked? What if there are fifty righteous people in the city? Will you really sweep it away and not spare the place for the sake of the fifty righteous people in it? Far be it from you to do such a thing, to kill the righteous with the wicked, treating the righteous and the wicked alike. Far be it from you! Will not the Judge of all the earth do right?"

Imagine!

How dare Abraham talking to God like that! But the unbelievable thing was – God had agreed to the bargain.

He'd really been surprised … astonished, even, when he'd first heard about that story, in a sermon about how they – people – were allowed to ask God for the things they needed, or even wished, and how God would allow them in most cases, if he thought it proper doing so.

"If I find fifty righteous people in the city of Sodom, I will spare the whole place for their sake." God had said to Abraham.

But then, Abraham had dared even more than just baiting God into a simple bargain.

"What if the number of the righteous is five less than fifty? Will you destroy the whole city for lack of five people?" Abraham had had the nerve to ask. And again – God had allowed it"

"If I find forty-five there, I will not destroy it." He'd answered Abraham – who'd once again spoken up, as if he'd speak to a market guy that sold figs and dates.

"What if only forty are found there?" Abraham had dared to ask. But again, the unbelievable had happened, and God had not stroke Abraham dead right there where he stood, for his boldness and for his daring.

"For the sake of forty, I will not do it." The Lord had said.

"May the Lord not be angry." Abraham had said – at least admitting that he might try God's patience. "But what if only thirty can be found there?"

"I will not do it if I find thirty there." God had answered.

"Now that I have been so bold as to speak to the Lord." Abraham had then asked – and again, at least Abraham had admitted that he _was_ bold in the first place. "What if only twenty can be found there?"

He'd been so sure that there would a bolt come down from heaven to strike Abraham dead right here and there … but –

"For the sake of twenty, I will not destroy it." God had answered, and he, Damien, he'd looked around in the large hall, looking for others who might be as startled as was he, who might be as confused as was he, but apparently he was the only one, and he'd even nudged Conner, looking at him questioningly, but the other boy had just smiled at him, nodding his head.

"May the Lord not be angry, but let me speak just once more." Alright, one last bargain, but really! How dare Abraham! It was God, after all, they were speaking of. "What if only ten can be found there?" And again:

"For the sake of ten, I will not destroy it."

God in Heaven!

He'd been unable to understand back then.

It had taken _him_ several _weeks_ , until he'd dared to ask something of God, after that talk with Conner, several weeks during which he'd hidden away in his room, but then, one night when he'd been unable to sleep, again, he'd knelt beside his bed, just like he'd read people doing when praying. He didn't know if people really did, but all those books spoke about it, and you could see it in the movies, too, sometimes … and so he'd done that, and carefully he'd asked God if he was there.

There hadn't been an answer.

And so he'd just tried into the blue to talk with God, telling him about his mom, and telling him that he didn't know what to do, asking him if he couldn't help, and at one point or another, he'd made a deal with God, telling him that – alright, you know what? If you help mom, then I'll go and visit that church of yours, Sunday for Sunday. But only if!

Still, he hadn't got an answer.

But during that night he'd been able to sleep. For the first time for weeks, and months, he'd been able to sleep peacefully and calmly. And then … just the day after –

It's been a Saturday, in the beginning of September, it's been a week before school had started again, and his mom had been on her way to the grocery, or maybe to the butcher, he didn't really know, but she hadn't come home for a long time, for hours, actually, and he'd already been worried. He'd already left the house to go and look for his mom when she'd come along the street, smiling happily.

"Where have you been, mom?" He'd asked, even though he'd known that it hadn't really been his place to ask, he'd been just too worried. "I've been worried. What happened?"

"Oh Damien." His mom had smiled at him, hugging him. "Nothing has happened. Cameron Chandler has invited me over for a cup of coffee at his church, that's all, and I've had a really nice afternoon. Didn't you know that they serve coffee and cake at their church on Saturday afternoons? Cameron has asked me over more than once now, but this time it's been even better. Sarah was there, and Gwyneth, and we've had a really good talk. I think I'll visit their service tomorrow."

For a moment he had been standing before his mother, not quite understanding, but then he'd looked up at the sky, and in thought he'd given a small and silent thanks to God.

Well, and just like he had promised, he'd visited church on Sundays, ever since.

Yes, Christmas was always great – but this time, it would be perfect.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between snow and ice …**

 _Chapter twelve: finally it's Christmas …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


	12. the night the Lord was born I

**Title:**

Between snow and ice

 **Sequel to:**

Between roses and peppermint

 **Prequel to:**

And sit a while with me  
Twenty-one days  
A few days more  
Two seconds  
End of days

 **Author:**

Evil Minded – alias Mrs. Trabi

 **Classification:**

Fiction – based on the bible

 **Timeframe:**

Winter 1939

 **Location:**

New Heaven's Valley, Indiana

 **Summary:**

AU/ As the sequel to _'between roses and peppermint'_ , this is another story about the small town New Heaven's Valley, just a short story about a small town in the States – and this time it is about winter '39, about Christmas, New Year's Eve, and about Mr. Snowman – about a church that is a place for God's family … have fun reading … to understand how things started in this story, you need to read _'between roses and peppermint'._

 **Disclaimer:**

Well … to my knowledge there is no place in Indiana called New Heaven's Valley and no place called Cárn dorch Liath in Scotland, and any persons and events in this story are fictional – should there be any relations to people or places, then that was far from my intentions …

Also, any reference to the Bible is just that, a reference, I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words, nor the persons, places or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies.

I'm just borrowing things from that best of all books, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story and I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …

 **Rating:**

M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16

 **Author's notes:**

I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has, even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult and reviews are very much welcomed, thank you very much

 **Warning:**

Story contains bad language and swearing.

Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.

Story contains references to child neglect.

Child neglect as well as abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever – of once having been abused or neglected, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated or neglected.

This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …

One last word or warning:

If you rip, tear, shred, bend, fold, burn, throw, deface, smear, smudge, bring brown rings caused by your coffee cup on the pages, or in any other manner damage, mistreat, or show lack of respect towards this book, the consequences will be as awful as it is within my power to make them …

* * *

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Previously in between snow and ice**

 _It had taken him several weeks, until he'd dared to ask something of God, after that talk with Conner, several weeks during which he'd hidden away in his room, but then, one night when he'd been unable to sleep, again, he'd knelt beside his bed, just like he'd read people doing when praying. He didn't know if people really did, but all those books spoke about it, and you could see it in the movies, too, sometimes … and so he'd done that, and carefully he'd asked God if he was there._

 _There hadn't been an answer._

 _And so he'd just tried into the blue to talk with God, telling him about his mom, and telling him that he didn't know what to do, asking him if he couldn't help, and at one point or another, he'd made a deal with God, telling him that – alright, you know what? If you help mom, then I'll go and visit that church of yours, Sunday for Sunday. But only if!_

 _Still, he hadn't got an answer._

 _But during that night he'd been able to sleep. For the first time for weeks, and months, he'd been able to sleep peacefully and calmly. And then … just the day after –_

 _It's been a Saturday, in the beginning of September, it's been a week before school had started again, and his mom had been on her way to the grocery, or maybe to the butcher, he didn't really know, but she hadn't come home for a long time, for hours, actually, and he'd already been worried. He'd already left the house to go and look for his mom when she'd come_ _down_ _the street, smiling happily._

 _"Where have you been, mom?" He'd asked, even though he'd known that it hadn't really been his place to ask, he'd been just too_ _nervous_ _. "I've been worried. What happened?"_

 _"Oh Damien." His mom had smiled at him, hugging him. "Nothing has happened. Cameron Chandler has_ _asked_ _me over for a cup of coffee at his church, that's all, and I've had a really nice afternoon. Didn't you know that they serve coffee and cake at their church on Saturday afternoons? Cameron has asked me over more than once now, but this time it's been even better. Sarah was there, and Gwyneth, and we've had a really good talk. I think I'll visit their service tomorrow."_

 _For a moment he had been standing before his mother, not quite understanding, but then he'd looked up at the sky, and in thought he'd given a small and silent thanks to God._

 _Well, and just like he had promised, he'd visited church on Sundays, ever since._

 _Yes, Christmas was always great – but this time, it would be perfect._

 **Between snow and ice**

 **Chapter twelve – the night the Lord was born I**

 **Or – God's Little Warrior**

 **December 23** **rd** **1939, Saturday –** **New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Michael**

"You know, I like Snowman Junior just as much as Mr. Snowman." Michael said, meeting Angus outside the church. The boy had put a torchlight into a small mound of snow, close enough to Mr. Snowman to illuminate him and his junior, but not close enough to get them melted – and as the warrior he was, the leader of God's army, he immediately noticed the sword Mr. Snowman was holding now, a real sword, not only a toy, instead of the broom they had put into the snowman's hand two days earlier.

"Really?" Angus asked. "But Mr. Snowman is a great warrior. See? We've exchanged the broom for a sword. Snowman Junior is just a small kid laying in the snow, he can't do anything for God, but Mr. Snowman is tall and strong, and able to wield a sword. He's able to defend this church and to fight against the demons the moment they come."

"You might be a kid only." He said, understanding why Gabriel liked this boy so much, understanding why he was taking him for a ride to the desert on his bike at a daily basis, even now, in winter. "But already I know that one day you'll be a great warrior."

"One day." The boy sighed. "But I want to be a great warrior now!"

"You are." He seriously said. "You are God's little warrior, because you're giving people hope and faith. In you they see how great God is, and in you they see how God loves his children."

"The only thing people see in me is how slow I am." The boy said, and he knew that Angus knew exactly what people thought of him. "In me they only see how dense I am, and how slow in learning – and how difficult I am."

"You are not slower than any other people." He answered, shrugging his shoulders. "And neither are you less intelligent. God has made you perfect the way you are – and maybe people around you are just too quick?"

"I don't think so." The boy shook his head, sighing.

"How is that?" He asked, sitting down on a log beside the boy.

"Because they're all different from me." The boy said, sounding angry. "Not just a few of them, but all of them, and my teachers always say that I am too slow. I can't even read properly! Or write! And I'm in grade five! And the docs over at Whitechapel Mount Hospital say that I'm disabled – I have to go there every three months, you know, and I even have a handicapped ID! People see a freak in me, but surely not hope or faith."

"People in general maybe." He agreed with the boy, calmly. "Those who don't know better. Because they only regard _that_ which is perfect in _their_ eyes but so very imperfect in God's eyes, but any people who know _God_ , who see how _God_ is working in you, they won't see a freak in you but a miracle, because never mind what your teachers or the docs say, you are a happy and nice boy, intelligent and willing to learn anything that could be learned, ready to work hard for what you want and you always consider others before yourself. You speak to God, you listen to what God says, and you regard his wish – you are perfect in God's eyes."

"Maybe." The boy sighed, looking over at Mr. Snowman. "Anyway, I'd like being as strong as _he_ is, the warrior that defends this church against the evil. Mr. Lafayette has given him the sword." The boy then added, and he narrowed his eyes at the boy – and at the sword, too. "He said Mr. Snowman could keep it while he existed, but after he's melted, we have to give it back. And he also said, that I can have it when I'm grown."

"I fear that, for once, I cannot disagree with Mr. Lafayette." He slowly said, regarding the sword the boys had put into the snow so that it looked as if Mr. Snowman would hold it in his branch-like hand with a thoughtful look. It wasn't the dark blade of a demon that radiated evilness and death, poison, but it was the bright blade of a weapon that, once, clearly had belonged to an angel – and yes, somehow he knew that this sword had to go over to the boy … and less than ever he understood, less than ever he saw.

"I have once told you, that one day you will be partaking in that unseen war between the angels and the demons." He said, still slowly, softly, wondering what side Sébastien Lafayette would fight for the moment his time had come. "And that is why I am still here, because of you. You have once asked if I would teach you in these skills, in how to wield a sword, and I have promised you, that I would. I have once told you, that you will be a great warrior of God – and until then, you will have to accept that you are God's little warrior. And you _are_ his little warrior, because already you are fighting. With each song you sing to praise God, with each person you regard before you think of yourself, with each time you defend God against those who don't believe, and with each smile you show someone, with each kindness you give away, and with everything you learn and work for, with each good you do, and with each prayer you say, or honor God with – you are already fighting for our Lord."

"Maybe." The boy said and he knew that he did understand his words very well, that it was only momentary frustration that made him stubborn. "But these are only small things, while I'd like to do the big things, like Mr. Snowman."

"Never give up on these dreams of yours." He smiled at the boy's eagerness. "But always remember – the bible tells us of so many people who did small things only … which caused such a big outcome. Never forget that, little warrior."

Without another word he extended his hand towards the boy, leading him into the warm building where he watched him skipping through the lobby, towards the other children, to play around, and to smile and laugh together with them, children enjoying their holidays, being happy, and looking forwards to celebrate Christmas Eve by the day tomorrow.

The boy greeting little Timmy Sanchez made him smile, because he knew that the two were good friends, and because he knew that the two would remain good friends, even in later years, when they would fight together, when they would keep this particular small village safe from the evil Satan spouted all over the world.

Yes, Angus McFlaherty would be a great warrior once, together with one or another of his friends which had yet to grow into an adult, but for now, the boy was God's little warrior, and God knew his heart.

The boy would see it one day, and until then, he would be there, as would Gabriel, because God had allowed them to remain, to do good, and to prepare people for the upcoming war between the angels of God and the demons of Satan. This small valley would be ready to fight for their Lord by the time the war would start, and he would make sure that they would be able to.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 24** **th** **1939, Sunday**

 **Viewpoint of Dunstan Black – alias Dunstan Hrothgar**

He'd never been a man who'd done things half-heartedly, and … well, if he was to start with this book Michael had – _just accidentally_ , of course – forgotten here, then he'd do it the right way, and so he'd sat back in his most comfortable armchair near the fireplace, and he'd started reading the first book of the Bible, a book called Genesis, written by a guy called Moses.

The days before he'd just skimmed through that book, finding a chapter here, and a sentence there, but – he was a person that did things either properly, or he didn't do them at all, and so he'd read that book until he'd fallen asleep in this damn armchair, leaving him feeling stiff in the morning and at least ten years older than he actually was.

He'd drank a cup of coffee, wondering what to do with the day – it was Christmas eve, after all, and Jean would be at home at one point or another during the late afternoon or evening. The idiot boy had left Rocknest Lake early, so that he'd be home in time for Christmas dinner tonight.

He'd make steaks and potato salad, and maybe they'd have a glass of wine for dinner, too – or maybe even two. He'd already put Jean's present beneath the tree, an overlarge woollen blanket for his armchair because the boy was always freezing, even despite the warm fire they always had running in the parlour.

It was the first Christmas they were celebrating together, and he didn't really know what the boy expected – or how he'd celebrated Christmas in the past with his father. They had never talked about that. They hadn't even talked about getting a Christmas tree … Jean had just cut the tree and brought it home – but the really strange thing had been, the boy had hidden the tree away behind the barn, as if he'd done something forbidden, but he'd found it when he'd cut some wood for the upcoming days, something Jean had not thought he'd do, or he would have hid the tree someplace else, and he'd just decorated it with those horrible red and golden balls and with the golden and the white angels he'd found in a hidden box in the attic when looking for something he could use for that.

So far he couldn't say that it's been a bad time, this year's Christmas season. He'd had a few good days with friends, especially with Michael, and he'd even met his presumed dead brother who was very much alive and even a chemist just like he was, and the man hadn't killed him, but had told him that he was alright with meeting again.

His brother.

Hereweald had always been the harsh one of them, back then already, when they were children, always the one wearing black, always the sarcastic one, always scary, and he hadn't changed in all those years … and Michael had known.

Yes, Michael had known – and once more he frowned when thinking at his friend … when thinking at this particular friendship in the first place, because really, who could say he was friends with an angel? And with an archangel, no less?

He'd first noticed something strange when watching the man up there, on Mount Eagle, during that wildfire last summer. The way the man had fought those demons, it had been clear that he hadn't been a simple man, but a warrior. But really, it was the year 1939, and not 1741 or something like that. Warriors didn't exist anymore, not those wielding a sword, at least.

Today's warriors were called soldiers, and they bore guns and muskets, maybe even knives, but surely no swords anymore. Yet, Michael had wielded his sword as if he'd never done anything else in his life. And then his strange aura. The entire presence of this man screamed _'I'm an angel of God'_ and seeing that the man was indeed a warrior, bearing the name of Michael, somehow for him it had been clear that he could only be the archangel Michael, the leader of God's army.

Anyway, he liked the man – and really, one needed one flaw or another, so what? He didn't care whether he was a fool thinking he was William Wallace, or if he was indeed the archangel Michael, the leader of God's army.

A demanding knock on the front door made him looking up, and getting off his armchair, he went to open the door, wondering who might come to visit on a day like today, on Christmas Eve.

"Good afternoon, Dunstan." Gabe said, and for a moment he blinked at the man, because today something was strange.

"Gabe." He said, allowing the pastor in.

The blond was wearing a white robe that was held together with a golden cord, and he was wearing a golden cloak against the cold of the winter, and – just like with Michael – something was wrong with his aura, telling him that … was it even normal for a pastor to wear clothes like _that_ during Christmas?

"Today, I am here in my function as the messenger of God." Gabe said, calmly, his bright eyes watching him with an intensity that was startling, scary even, creepy and from one moment to the other he knew that Gabe Heavensville was the archangel Gabriel – the messenger of God – and he had to sit down on the small commode that stood in the corridor.

What was it with this damn small town here?

Not only demons roaming the area, but angels being here, too? And some of the highest angels, no less? How many more of them were here? And …

"And what message do you have for me?" He asked, taking a deep breath before slowly releasing it. He'd gotten used to Michael with time, but now Gabriel, too?

 _"Go to New Heaven's Valley." Jesus said, looking at him calmly._

 _"What would I do there?" He asked, not understanding._

 _"You'll know the moment you're there." Jesus answered, smiling at him._

"You are to come and visit church." Gabriel said – nothing more, just … that he had to come and visit church?

Yes, Jesus had been absolutely correct in sending him here, because not only had he met Jean who had become something like a son to him, but he had met his brother, too, and that wasn't even all of it, because … things were about to happen here, things that were … well, things that promised to become great things … he didn't know what it was, but something was happening here, and somehow he knew that he'd have a part in it.

"What about Jean?" He asked, shaking his head. "I can't just leave the kid here alone. This has to become his first decent Christmas since his father died and I can't just leave him alone today of all days. And please, don't tell me that Jean isn't important enough, because if he weren't, then God wouldn't have sent me here in the first place to meet him." He said, even though he knew that one should not start arguing with the messenger of God.

"Of course the kid is important." Gabriel smiled at him. "But do not worry about Jean, you are welcomed at God's assembly to visit Christmas Eve service, as is this wayward – son … of yours, and he will be informed and brought over, too. Neither of you are to celebrate the day of our Lord's birth alone."

Well – if an angel told him to come, then who was he to argue with him?

To the church he'd go tonight.

And somehow he knew, that Jean would be informed by Gabriel, too, that the angel would bring his young friend, too.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 24** **th** **1939, Sunday – someplace between Rocknest Lake and Yellowknife, Barren Ground, Canada**

 **Viewpoint of Jean McIory**

Well, of course he'd been correct, and Big Bear had given him some trouble the moment he'd arrived at Rocknest Lake and therefore the interim storage – no, Big Bear had really not been pleased, standing in the doorway of the barrack, blocking the light that came from the inside of the hut, casting a large shadow onto the snow, threatening and intimidating, and immediately he'd known that the man had not been pleased, that once more, he'd managed to piss the man's leg.

"What the fucking hell do you think you're doing, McIory?" The man had asked, had thundered, and for a moment he'd shuddered, knowing that Big Bear never called him McIory – except for those moments where their working relationship overruled their friendship, in other words, if he was in trouble, if he was in really big trouble.

Like the moment he had reached the interim storage last night after having ignored a driving ban for the second time now, and driving through a snowstorm instead …

Well, Big Bear had officially given him a call to order – before unofficially telling him that he'd been worried death, and that next time he'd pull a stunt such as this, he'd have his fist in his face … and hopefully a broken nose.

Well, and seeing that the storm had finally ceased, he was now on his way home, and in an hour, maybe two, he'd reach Yellowknife where he'd have lunch. He'd unload the post sack and a few boxes which were meant for Yellowknife, and then he'd go on to the south. He'd be at home early, he guessed, seeing that he'd left Rocknest Lake early in the morning, and hopefully he wouldn't be too tired after dinner.

It was Christmas Eve, after all, and he didn't want to go to bed early due to being tired after ten hours he'd been driving a heavy truck through the wilderness.

But, being out there, and driving a heavy load through the barren ground for four days, crossing lakes that were frozen over from December to February only – well, it wasn't an easy job, and it definitely was a dangerous job that cost not only strength but nerves, too, and after four days out there, you just _were_ tired, never mind what, so – he guessed that he'd have dinner with Dunstan, and that he'd then fall asleep on the sofa even before the first movie would start tonight.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 24** **th** **1939, Sunday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Jethro Chandler**

He hadn't really been happy about going to church – after all, he never was.

One reason was, that he was no churchgoer at all. Another reason was that – he had his troubles with God. God had not kept Julien from dying, even though Julien had been a man of God, and of course, one more reason was that he knew, today of all days, he'd meet Cameron at Church.

Not that he didn't get along with Cameron, he – well, of course he didn't … _love_ … his brother, seeing that this particular emotion was something for the weak, but well – he liked him, somehow, and he'd kill anyone who'd hurt him, without blinking an eye.

But he didn't like having to deal with him at church, of all places. It was enough that he had to visit church during weekdays once in a while so that he could meet with Michael, or with Cole … _or_ with Dunstan – he didn't need Cameron added to these two, or rather three, even though Dunstan wouldn't tell him how important it was to follow God or Jesus, seeing that _he_ was lured into this bloody church, too – because Dunstan only went to church to meet with Michael or Gabriel, too, just like him.

But for the sake of the boy, for the sake of Walter, they had come, today, and he would endure Cameron and his babbling about God and Jesus, today, even though he still didn't understand the difference between the two – or the lack of difference, he didn't really know which way round.

Well, they had been invited by not only Kayleigh, but by – and that was the reason why he'd really come – Emily, too, and seeing that the boy was better … well, they were here now. His fever had been gone since the day before yesterday, and there had only been a small cough here and there, nothing worrisome that would kill the kid if he were to celebrate a decent Christmas feast at the church – they wouldn't throw a party with loads of alcohol, drugs and other such things – even though he wasn't so sure about the Irish delegation when it came to whiskey.

Well, Caitlyn had come to greet them at the door, smiling at him and taking the boy's present he'd brought from his hands, and for a moment he'd scowled at the women – he'd packed it with his own hands, after all, and it had taken him hours! And his look he'd thrown at the woman had meant – _'destroy the wrapping, and you'll die the most gruesome death imaginable! I don't really care about the present itself, but don't destroy the wrapping!'_

However, he'd been very happy the moment he'd seen some empty chairs close to Cole Benson and Dunstan Black, knowing that most likely McIory would be coming, too, if Black was there.

"Six miles to Jesus." Cameron said, starting a sermon, and taking a deep and suffering breath, he rolled his eyes – because that had been one of the reasons why he hadn't been planning on coming to church today. "You all know that, six miles isn't far." His brother said, and in his mind he agreed. "Six miles, it's up to Whitechapel Mount City, or over to the fields if you pass the baseball pitch. You can easily cover six miles in a few hours, start in the forenoon and you'll be there in the afternoon. Even if you take several rests to eat an apple, a sandwich, and to enjoy the nature, or if you go for a swim in the nearby river or lake – six miles won't take you longer than a day."

Leaning back in his chair he folded his arms in front of his chest and took a deep breath. He was here – and he could just as well listen his brother. After all, he'd never listened to any of his brother's sermons.

"Six miles." His Brother repeated, and he sighed – well, that could be boring. "Mitchell, last week you got a letter from Owen – he's in Tokyo, that's about 6.600 miles. Imagine! So – what are six miles? Some of our children remain in the town we are living in, even after they're grown and married, but some of them leave the town to live in the neighbouring city, or maybe even in the neighbouring state. Sometimes it's just six miles to the national border, but sometimes it's six hundred miles. So, what's a six mile trip from – let me say Jerusalem, to Bethlehem, because that's the distance between the two.

It's far from the 100 miles trip Mary and Joseph had had to cover when they travelled from Nazareth to Bethlehem – in the dead of winter, and in the ninth month of Mary's pregnancy … yes, it really was an inconvenient time to travel this particular route, east to the Jordan River, following the valley south to Jericho, and then westwards, up the Jericho Road through the mountains to Jerusalem – and then a quick jog of six miles to the south, to Bethlehem.

But Mary and Joseph weren't the only ones travelling these days, on the contrary.

It had been like thousands of people walking this way and that way, and the streets had been crowded, because Caesar Augustus had decided that he needed to take a census, so that he could collect more taxes – in other words, he needed more money. And so people were going far south to Hebron or Beersheba, north to Capernaum, or Jerusalem, and Joseph, together with Mary, was going to a small village about six miles south of Jerusalem – a place called Bethlehem.

In Matthew 2, in the verses 1-6, we read: After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked: 'Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star in the east and we have come to worship him.' When King Herod heard this he was disturbed, and all Jerusalem with him. When he had called together all the people's chief priests and teachers of the law, he asked them where the Christ was to be born. 'In Bethlehem in Judea,' they replied, 'for this is what the prophet has written: But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means last among the rulers of Judah, for out of you will come a ruler who will be the shepherd of my people from Israel.'

Everyone involved had the same basic information, Herod, the scribes, the wise men – they all knew about the baby that had been born in Bethlehem, and they all knew who that baby was – and it was only six miles.

We know that the angel of the Lord had visited Mary and Joseph, telling them to take the baby and to travel to Egypt in order to protect the boy from Herod who was planning on killing the child – but what I wonder is: it is only six miles from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, and they had all the same basic information. So, why did Herod not think of sending out his soldiers to look for that child in this six miles afar town? Six miles – and they could have killed the child.

There's no answer to that question in script, but I think that his Father in Heaven has protected him back then already."

For a moment his eyes went over to Michael.

Of course he knew who Michael was – and therefore he also knew who Gabriel was, and that _he_ was the angel who had visited Mary and Joseph to tell them they should travel to Egypt … and suddenly he realized the entirety of the situation.

He had always known that there was someone called God who'd made earth and men – but only since last summer had he started realizing what it meant, because last summer he'd learned to know God. He'd met those demons, he'd even fought those demons, and he'd met Michael up on Mount Eagle, had even fought those demons by the archangel's side, and seeing that he was a very logical person, he knew that – if demons existed, and if he was able to fight them, side by side by an angel, then God had to exist, too, and then God had to be as real and as powerful as was written in the bible, that he was not some fairy that lived far away to look back at his creation once in a while, only. It had been back then that he had realized what it had meant, meeting God's presence.

"Another thing I wonder about is – everyone involved had the same basic information." Cameron continued, getting him out of his thoughts, and he noticed that he did indeed listen closer than he had planned. "Herod, the scribes, most people in the city – they all knew about the baby that had been born in Bethlehem, and they all knew who that baby was – and it was only six miles away … but, why did no one except for the wise men go to visit that baby?

If, let me say, the newspaper told us that Jesus was sitting in a coffee in Whitechapel Mount City, for example, how would we react to these news? Would we react any different from those people back then? Would we stop reading the book or working in the garden and go meeting him instead? Would we stop whatever we were doing to go to Whitechapel Mount City and visit that coffee Jesus is sitting in? For us it would be even easier than for them back then, we only needed to take the car and we'd cover these six miles in a few minutes – but, would we really stop whatever we were doing, to drive over to Whitechapel Mount City and …"

Would he? He wondered, his thoughts wandering from the words his brother was saying, and he shook his head, because – he didn't know … because he'd never thought about that.

Why should Jesus – if he would come back, he was dead, after all – go to visit a coffee in Whitechapel Mount City?

And, why, for Heaven's sake …

Well, if that guy were to come back from the death – what he personally doubted – then …

He didn't really understand.

He didn't even understand the basic of it.

"But, he's dead, isn't he?" He couldn't help asking, turning towards Cole Benson. "He'd been killed by some idiots because they'd been scared of him, they'd been scared of him, because he'd done too many good things."

"It's more than that." The Sheriff answered, chuckling, and he frowned. "He'd been killed because of political reasons, because of power some people feared they'd lose."

"But he's dead." He shook his head. "He was killed."

"Sure." Cole nodded his head. "He was killed. But no, he's not dead, because he came back from grave. He is the Son of God, after all, and he'd conquered death."

He still didn't understand, but for the first time in his life he wanted to know more about it, for the first time in his life he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he should be asking Cameron about it, about God, about Jesus, and about what it was he was believing in so vehemently and so faithfully that he didn't fear the laugher of him, Jethro, of his brother, so that he didn't fear his harsh words.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **Viewpoint of Cameron Chandler**

"Why don't you just call him, Emily?" He asked after a while, after having watched his sister in law looking over at the door whenever it opened – hopefully – before her face fell. It was four in the afternoon – perfect coffee-time – and for hours now, Emily was hoping that maybe Hereweald Hrothgar might appear in the doorway to celebrate Christmas together with them – as was Timmy Sanchez, because that boy, too, was looking over at the door, expectantly, whenever it opened, before he was clearly disappointed whenever it was not the chemistry professor entering.

"No." Emily sighed, shaking her head. "He'd said that they have students at their school for Christmas." She said. "I don't think that he'll come."

"And still you're looking over whenever the door opens." He said, shrugging his shoulders. "So, you're hoping that he'll come anyway."

"It's just –" Emily started, but then she shook her head, sighing. "I really don't think he will come, he is a very responsible man, after all, but I just thought that maybe …"

"Just go and call him." He repeated.

"And I don't even think that it would be appropriate." She said, shaking her head.

"I have already told you – Julien is dead for ten years now, Emily." He said, trying to reason with the woman. "Neither I nor Jethro will be angry if you start looking for another man now, after all those years."

"That's not what I mean." She frowned. Of course she knew that neither he nor Jethro would hold it against her if she started a relationship with someone, now.

"Then what do you mean?" He asked, not really understanding. He'd like his sister in law being happy again, and if Hereweald would make her happy, then be it – even though he didn't see how that could work, seeing that the Chemistry Professor was by far the most grumpy and irritable man on this earth God had created.

"Well …" Emily started, sighing. "I've met him a few times only." She then said. "And we've just changed a few words, he doesn't even know that I … well … you know … so, how am I to invite him now? Telling him that 'dear Hereweald, I have a crush on you and therefore I demand your presence here at church for Christmas dinner?"

"Uhm, I wouldn't do it so bluntly." He said, looking at her innocently. "But well, I am only a man, and how am I to know how to handle things such as this …"

"Cameron Chandler!" The woman called out, looking at him sternly, and he couldn't help chuckling at her shock.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 24** **th** **1939, Sunday – Whitechapel Mount, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Hereweald Hrothgar**

Idiots!

All of them were idiots!

And Garcia was clearly the main idiot, the chief of all idiots, the … the … how _could_ he!

It wasn't that he was a friend of Christmas, surely not. He neither believed in Christmas, nor did he believe in God or the birth of Jesus – never mind if it had been at Christmas or at any other point in time, he didn't much care about that.

But how could that idiot cancel Christmas for the children!

Sure, most students went home during Christmas holidays to celebrate together with their families, or rather, to unwrap their presents together with their families, because surely they wouldn't celebrate these particular holidays as to his knowledge none of them believed in any of these nonsense things. They were just happy about the presents, that was all.

But two of them were present right now, namely Mr. Constantin and Mr. Irving.

Sure, he wasn't responsible for Mr. Irving, as he was a student of VanHarkins' house and not of his, but that wasn't the point, because surely he didn't generally care about the children being happy or not happy. They were his students and they were here to learn, nothing less and nothing more.

But any child had the right to celebrate at least one decent holidays during the year, and for the most, that was Christmas. So, Garcia cancelling Christmas had been the worst thing he could have done!

And who had to straighten things out? Again?

Of course it was him! And so he went down the stairs coming from the headmaster's office to tell Constantin that – there wouldn't be any Christmas celebrations tonight, and for a moment he pitied Hendric, because _he_ would have to tell _his_ student, und while he knew that Johnny Constantin would accept it with a simple inclining of his head, and a small sigh at the most, he knew that Charles Irving would make a scene and throw a tantrum.

"Hereweald." A voice called him, and with a scowl on his face he turned towards the voice, towards the entrance door – to meet the dark eyes of Michael.

"What?" He asked, growled, wondering how the man had got into the school – and wondering what he was doing here to begin with.

"Knowing that Gabriel wouldn't impress you much, God has sent me to pick you and your students up for Christmas celebration at church in New Heaven's Valley."

"Why should I follow your invitation?" He asked, huffing at the man. "I see no reason as to why I should follow any invitation from your God …"

"No one should be alone during Christmas." Michael growled back at him.

"I'm not alone, you imbecile." He shook his head. He knew very well that Michael – as well as Gabriel … and Lafayette, by the way, were no simple townsfolk living in New Heaven's Valley, even though he didn't really know what to think of them. He knew that Lafayette surely was a vampire, because he had to be one, all black as he was, and with his secretive and dark aura that radiated him, but of Michael and Gabriel – no, he didn't really know what it was with these two.

"You _are_ all alone." Michael said, and angrily he took a step towards that man. "Even if the headmaster had not cancelled Christmas, you would be all alone anyway, because you are making yourself all alone."

"Even if I did, it would be none of your business." He hissed angrily. How dare that man accusing him such!

It was true, and he liked his solitude better than any kind of company, but how dare that man making an accusation out of it!

"Just follow your heart." Michael said, calmly, sighing. "It knows the way."

"I do not have a heart!" He growled, his anger rising to its highest. "How dare you accusing me of such! I suggest you leave right now, before I accuse you of trespassing! Just go back to that little town of yours and celebrate your Christmas like all those other idiots down there, but leave me alone!"

And with these words he turned to leave.

"You cannot start the next chapter of your life if you keep reading the last one, Hereweald Hrothgar." Michael called after him – said after him, because he didn't call it. His voice was as quiet and as calm as always, and he actually turned back to the man. "There comes a time when you have to choose between turning the page and closing the book. You are free to choose, but you are not free from the consequences of your choice."

"Go." He said, calmly himself. "Go back to your town and take care of your own people, but leave me alone."

There was a short inclining of Michael's head, and then the man turned, leaving the building through the large entrance doors just like any normal human being, and for a moment he shook his own head – because what had he expected? The man leaving while floating through the doors? Like a ghost? Without opening them first?

Apparently this snow storm a few days ago had done more damage to him than he had thought in the first place. Or maybe his anger about Garcia had made him thinking such strange thoughts – after all, he'd never liked Garcia to begin with, and now he liked him less than ever. It could be an explanation, in his humble opinion … yes, it could be an explanation.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

 **December 24** **th** **1939, Sunday – New Heaven's Valley, Indiana**

 **Viewpoint of Gabriel**

He was happy to celebrate the birth of his Lord at the church together with close friends.

Sure, it had not really been the night between December 24th and 25th, when Jesus had been born. It's been September, and if people regarded the little fact that Jesus had been conceived when Elizabeth, John's mother, had been in her sixth month of pregnancy, as Luke told in the bible, then they'd know that, too

Zacharias, John's father, had been a priest serving in the temple in Jerusalem during the duration of Abijah, what had been in the middle of June that year, where he'd learned that he and his wife would have a child. So, assuming that Elizabeth conceived after Zacharias had travelled home, what Luke had affirmed, near the end of June, and then adding six month, it was December when Jesus was conceived – adding another nine months, it was September when Jesus had been born.

"Would you like a glass of wine, Professor?" He heard Sebastién asking.

"I'm no friend of wine, my dear Vampire." Hereweald, the Professor shook his head, leaning back in his chair, and it was clear that he had enjoyed dinner, even against his own wishes.

It had been half an hour after Michael had left the school up there on Whitechapel Mount, half an hour after the other angel had come back, that the door of the church had opened again, and four persons had come in, slowly, nearly unsurely – if one could speak of unsureness when it came to Hereweald Hrothgar, because the man knew how to hide his unsureness very well, and he'd waved them over happily, seating them close to Lafayette and Michael, knowing that Hereweald Hrothgar and Hendrik VanHarkins wouldn't feel out of place between these two.

"What a shame, Professor." Lafayette – _'the Vampire'_ – answered. "Because it's the best red wine throughout all country. Only in Athens you might find wine that is older and better than mine. Now, what do you say, Professor?"

"I do thank you for that offer, Mr. Lafayette, but I fear that I have spent enough time at a place where people are praying to a God that is not existent."

"How would you proof God's – none-existence?" Michael asked, looking at the Professor with his eyes narrowed, and somehow he knew that the other angel would like to say more.

"I have no interest in proving or disproving God's existence or none-existence." Hereweald shrugged his shoulders. "You might believe in him as long as you wish – I just don't."

"And nevertheless this God has led you here, has enticed you into Cameron's house and now into His own house." Sebastién smiled a satisfied smile when Hereweald growled at the man.

"It was by chance that I ended up here." Hereweald huffed.

"Was it by chance?" Sebastién asked, and Hereweald glared at the 'wannabe-Vampire', and it was clear what he was thinking: that man might be playing a role like coming from a medieval movie, but he was just a simple idiot believer in God. He'd not be impressed by that man, nor by his antics.

"You do realize that I do not fear Werewolves?" Hereweald asked Sebastién, causing the man to chuckle, and causing Michael to narrow his eyes at the two, and he shook his head.

Of course he knew that Michael neither liked Sebastién Lafayette, nor trusted him, that he thought him to be a demon, and the Professor's accusation of Sebastién being a Vampire – or a Werewolf, it was coming very close to that and was definitely oil poured into the flames Michael was keeping up so vehemently.

"And there I thought I were the _Vampire_." Sebastién laughed, leaning back in his chair, too, and he watched the man for a moment longer.

Sure he knew, that there was something strange when it came to Sebastién, he could feel it just as well as could Michael – they were both angels, of course they could feel it, just as well as Sebastién could feel that they were no ordinaire men. But a Werewolf? A Vampire? A demon, kind of, maybe, but surely neither a Werewolf nor a Vampire, because none of the two really existed. But with a deep breath Michael murmured that – "yes, and you better go back to them."

"Throw me to the wolves." Sebastién answered the angel's near silent whisper, his black eyes intense on the dark blue ones of the warrior. "And I will return leading the pack."

And for a moment he knew that _that_ was, what Sebastién would be doing.

For a moment he knew that Sebastién Lafayette would be returning to them one day, leading the pack – but what kind of pack would it be? And to what end … to what end would the man be leading that precise kind of pack? Because still he knew, that Sebastién Lafayette was a close follower of God, and not his enemy, not evilness walking this earth, but a man of God.

 _Breåk· … ·~_ _ **†**_ _~*~*~*~*~*~_ _ **†**_ _~· … ·Łine_

* * *

 **To be continued**

 **Next time in … between snow and ice …**

 _Chapter thirteen: the late evening …_

 **Author's notes:**

 _A few words before hitting the "next"-button, are mostly welcomed ..._

 _Thanks for reading, and thanks for reviewing ..._


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